_Dec. 26th._ Two pounds from father, one from grandfather, ten shillings Cousin Alice, five Aunt Grace, kettle-holder Aunt Aggie, two dozen handkerchiefs Uncle Bob, fountain-pen father, new hat mother (quite hopeless), photo-gravure ‘Happy Warrior’ Aunt Betty, two books ‘Reuben Hallard’ by Westcott (Mudie second-hand) ‘Rossetti’s Poems’ from Henry—lovely amethyst brooch Katie (darling!) two novels by Turgenieff from Philip—lots of other things. Nice day on the whole, but not _quite right_ somehow. Wish mother didn’t always look so anxious when there’s a dinner party. You always _expect_ things to happen wrong, and really Rocket knows his business by this time. All of us a little forced, I think. It seemed funny not being at Garth and Philip the first person we’ve ever had not of the family. Aunt Sarah keeps forgetting who he is, or pretends to. I wish he didn’t make up to mother quite so much. That isn’t the way to make her like him. I really _do_ understand him much better than anyone else does—_much_ better than Katie. _Dec. 31st._ Going to the Savoy party to-night. Hope it will be fun. Never expected mother to let me, but she’s awfully sweet to me lately. She’s a darling, but we’re really always just a little afraid of one another. Of course I’m not out yet, so I’ll have to be quiet to-night. Mother never would have dreamt of letting me go six months back. End of the year—made several resolutions. Not to be snappy, nor superior, nor cynical, nor selfish. That’s enough for anyone to look after! Wonder what things will be like this year, and how Katie and Philip will turn out. Feel as though things will all go wrong, and yet I don’t know why. Bought the hat I saw a fortnight ago. Finished ‘House of Gentlefolks’. _Adored_ it. Discussed it with Philip. Going to get all the other Turgenieffs. Think Russia must be a wonderful country. Time to dress. I know I’ll just _love_ the party.... * * * * * Only Mrs. Trenchard herself could say whether or no she had enjoyed this Christmas. She displayed the same busy placidity as on other occasions; of her fears, disappointments, surprises, she said nothing. The turkey was a success, the plum-pudding burnt with a proper glow, no one was ill, she had forgotten, in sending out her parcels, no single Trenchard relation—surely all was well. Her brother, Timothy, who knew her better than anyone else did, had long abandoned the penetration of her motives, aims, regrets. There had been a time when she had been almost intimate with him, then something (he never knew what) had driven her in more obstinately than ever upon herself. Something he had said.... He could point almost exactly to the day and hour. She had been a stranger to him from that moment. Her history was, however, very simple.