“Merry Christmas! I had five minutes’ extra time and I thought I’d drop in to take the chance of finding you. Had an idea you’d be in the doldrums, first Christmas out of the backyard, y’know.” Unasked, he slipped off the ulster and Thurley saw he was in evening dress. “Thing at the club,” he explained, noticing her expression. “Well, what have we been doing? Don’t tell me that rascal of a Sam had you behind for tea.” “He did.” Thurley suddenly found her old wild-rose self as she told him of the matinée. When she finished he said, those curious gray eyes of his narrowing, “A good singer should have a good—” holding out the white tissue paper parcel. “Oh, what?” she demanded. “It’s the only present I’ve had that was done in white tissue paper. Nothing came from home and the others laugh at Christmas. Miss Clergy gave me this bracelet—but the bill was in the box,” she added resentfully. “But this—this is direct from Santa Claus.” “It’s a good mascot,” he informed her gravely. “Always keep it to say little heathen prayers or curses to and tell it your troubles and your joys. In short, treat it like a regular fellow.” Thurley scrambled the paper and ribbon away. “Why—I bought you almost the same,” she said unconsciously. Hobart laughed. “You actually bought your stern _maestro_ a present?” Thurley was absorbed in looking at the little Buddha carved from lapis lazuli with gold for the features and diamonds for eyes. “This one is much lovelier,” she said. “Tell me—did you really buy me a present?” he demanded. She nodded. “Why haven’t you handed it over?” “Because—I bought presents for every one—the sort of things you people laugh at—but you seemed different from the others so I bought you a Buddha because I thought you needed some one to tell your real secrets to—and then, after I wrapped it up, I began to think you would not like it—” “Will you get it or shall I send a court order for my property?” Thurley vanished, reappearing with the teakwood case. “Isn’t it odd that we both bought the same thing?” Hobart’s face was boyish as he took the gift. “Why, Thurley,” he told her, “I believe I’m training an angel unawares.” “You mean me?” she asked humbly. “What made you speak of telling real secrets?” he stroked the little idol as he spoke. “I don’t know—only where do the real things go to when the unreal have to come first and take up all one’s time?” Hobart started towards her; he seemed about to say something very secret. Thurley looked at him wistfully, every memory concerning the Corners, her dissatisfactions and rebellions vanished. She assumed a gay, star-like mood. But he thought better of it and became the polite and baffling Bliss Hobart with whom no one took liberties, least of all a girl protégée. It would be wiser to tell the secrets to the little Buddha whose silence was of golden quality. Perhaps, if years ago, more years ago than Thurley knew, one’s secret things had not been used as public jokes....