"Like them? It’s the one part of Heaven that sounds most attractive. You know where it says in the Bible: ’Suffer little children ... and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven,’ and then a lot more toward the end about gold and jasper and glassy seas and streets of gold. I expect there must be a nursery for the children who died young. I’d like to squeeze in with the little angels!" "You funny child!" "I’m not a child. It’s only my silly way of talking. I’m a woman. Why, this"—she held up her little finger—"this knows more about love and pain and everything else than—Lexie’s whole body. Now I must be off. I do talk to you. What makes me? I only meant to stop a minute." She was wrought up at the prospect of spending Christmas—a real country Christmas—under such delightful conditions as she had outlined and Chalfont had tacitly acquiesced in. Too impatient to wait until evening to impart the joyful news to Alexandra she made for Sidey Street as fast as a taxicab could take her. There, breathlessly she told her news. "How nice of him!" declared Alexandra. "Did you meet him accidentally, or how?" "How," answered Maggy, and colored violently under Alexandra’s clear and searching eyes. "I had to go to his house—on business," she floundered, giving herself away. Alexandra could not help laughing. "Oh, Maggy! Then the diamonds I wore last night were his!" "Nothing wrong with them, was there?" "No, but—but you must be very friendly with him. Have you seen him a lot since he came back?" "When I went to borrow them and again to-day when I took them back," replied Maggy, regaining her self-possession. "I wonder what he thinks of you!" "Oh, just mad," said Maggy. In a week’s time it would be Christmas. The joys of anticipation helped her to endure Woolf’s absence. She knew that her visit to Purton Towers would incense him, but she did not intend going it on that account. She would not be doing Woolf or herself any wrong in going. When he returned she would be quite honest and tell him all about it. Meanwhile she wrote to Chalfont. "_Dear Lord Chalfont:_ "Lexie will love to come. Me too. But would you mind very much if I brought Mrs. Slightly and Mr. Onions? "Yours sincerely, "MAGGY DELAMERE." Her large and sprawly handwriting covered the sheet. Had it not been for the afterthought in the form of a postscript which she added overleaf, Chalfont might have remained in ignorance of the identity of the two additional guests. It ran thus: "I forgot you don’t know them. Mrs. Slightly could sleep anywhere, being a cat. Mr. Onions is my dog and has a basket in my room. At any other time of the year I would not mind leaving them in charge of the porter at the flats but at Christmas everybody loses their heads and they might not get fed. They are not well bred but they have good manners."