"He’s gone to honeymoon places, I mean. On business. He couldn’t take me." She changed the subject quickly. "Have you ever been to see Lexie?" "No," he replied. "I wasn’t sure she would like me to." "Perhaps she wouldn’t. It’s not much of a place where she lives." "But I want you to give her a message, if you will." "Of course. What is it?" "An invitation. It’s for you too, if you will accept it. But perhaps you’ve made arrangements already—for Christmas, I mean." Maggy shook her head. Her Christmas would have to be spent alone in her flat. It did not occur to her that Chalfont was making her an alternative proposition. "In that case I shall be very glad if you and Miss Hersey will spend it with me at Purton Towers." Maggy started. Lexie and she and he all together at Christmas time! At Purton Towers! "Is that your country-house?" she faltered. "Yes. You’ll come? We should be rather quiet because—" "Because of poor Mrs. Lambert," she interjected with quick understanding. "Was—was she there with you last year?" "No, she would never come." Maggy was thinking. "I expect Lexie would love to go," she cogitated. "And so should I. But I ought to stop at the flat.... Would it be very wrong if I didn’t? He—Fred—is very strict about me. I wish I’d asked him...." Chalfont did not attempt persuasion. "All right," she said suddenly. "I’ll come. It would be a shame to prevent Lexie having a good time. She wouldn’t come without me. It will be simply lovely!" "I’ll motor you both down on Christmas Eve and bring you back in time for the theater on Boxing night. I think you’ll like the old place." "Shall I? What makes you think so?" "For one thing because of the cedars on the lawn." "Like in my dream? Oh, ripping!" "And there is the home-farm. You like animals." Maggy’s face lighted up. "Will there be lambs and calves and fat squealy little pigs?" "Hardly at this time of year," answered Chalfont, amused. "You’ll have to come in the spring again to see them." "I don’t think I could resist it, if you invited us. May I ask you something?" "Anything you like. Fire away." "It’s this," she said with considerable hesitation. "I would love to spend a _real_ Christmas Day. Would you mind? One goes to church, doesn’t one? And I would like people not to know we were actresses. I would like—if you could manage it—to have a Christmas tree. Couldn’t you ask some village children—a lot of them? Children are always in season even when lambs and calves aren’t. That’s one blessing." "I think that could be managed. Do you like children?" he asked, surprised at her earnestness.