He looked ghastly enough as Bulstrode spoke, and the gentleman put his arm under the Englishman's. "I'll ring for the servants and have some coffee made and fetched to your room. Lean on me." He helped the vagabond upstairs. The New Yorker, whose sentimental follies were certainly a menace to public safety and a premium to begging and vagabondage and crime, slept well and late, and was awakened finally by the keen, bright ringing of the telephone at his side. As he took up the receiver his whole face illumined. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy!" . . . . . . . . "What _wonderful_ roses! Thanks a thousand times!" . . . . . . . . "But of course I knew! No other man in New York is sentimental enough to have a woman awakened at eight o'clock by a bunch of flowers!" . . . . . . . . "Forgive you!" (It was clear that she did.) . . . . . . . . "Jimmy, what a day for Tuxedo, and what a shame I can't go!" . . . . . . . . "You weren't going! You mean to say that you had refused?" . . . . . . . . "I don't understand--it's the connection--West?" "Why, ranches look after themselves. They always do. They go right on. You don't _mean_ it, on Christmas day!" . . . . . . . . "I shouldn't care for your reasons. They're sure to be ridiculous--unpractical--unnecessary--don't tell them to me." There was a pause, and then the voice, which had undergone a slight change said: "Jack's ill again ... that's why I couldn't go to Tuxedo. I shall pass the day here in town. I called up to tell you this--and to suggest--but since you're going West..." Falconer's illnesses! How well Bulstrode knew them, and how well he could see her alone in the familiar little drawing-room by a hearth not built for a Christmas tree! He had promised Waring, "I'll stand by you." It was a kind of vow--a real vow, and the poor tramp had lived up to his. "Jimmy." There was a note he had never heard before; if a tone can be a tear, it was one. He interrupted her. . . . . . . . . "How dear of you!" . . . . . . . . "But I haven't any Christmas tree!" . . . . . . . . "You'll fetch one? How _dear_ of you! We'll trim it--with your roses--make it bloom. Come early and help me dress the tree." Two hours later he opened the door into his breakfast-room with the guiltiness of a truant boy. He wore culprit shame written all over his face, and the young man who stood waiting for him in the window might almost have read his friend's dejection in his embarrassed face. But Waring came eagerly forward, answered the season's greetings, and said quickly: "Are you still in the same mind about the West, Mr. Bulstrode?" (Poor Bulstrode!) "I mean to say, sir, if you still feel like giving me this chance, I've a favor to ask. Would you let me go _alone_?" Bulstrode gasped.