“Now Heaven only knows,” I replied. “I have never eaten English sausages. Ask your father.”
Barfleur merely smiled. “I think not,” he replied.
“Christmas is certainly looking up,” I said to him badgeringly. “If I come out of here alive,--in condition for Paris and the Riviera,--I shall be grateful.”
Well, finally, to make a long story short, the day came, or, at least, the day before. We were all assembled for a joyous Christmas Eve--T. McT., Sir Scorp, Gerard Barfleur, the dearest aunt and the charming cousin, extremely intelligent and artistic women both, the four children, Barfleur’s very clever and appealing secretary, and myself. There was a delightful dinner spread at seven-thirty, when we all assembled to discuss the prospects of the morrow. It was on the program, as I discovered, that I should arise, and accompany Barfleur, his aunt, his cousin, and the children to a nearby abbey church, a lovely affair, I was told, on the bank of the Thames hard by the old English town called Bridgely, while Gerard Barfleur, who positively refused to have anything to do with religion of any kind, quality or description, was to go and reconnoiter a certain neighboring household (of which more anon), and to take young James Herbert (he of the “bawth”) for a fine and long-anticipated ride on his motor cycle. Lord Scorp and T. McT. were to remain behind to discuss art, perhaps, or literature, being late risers. If there was to be any Santa Claus, which the children doubted, owing to Barfleur’s rather grave asseveration to the contrary (there having been a number of reasons why a severely righteous Santa might see fit to remain away), he was not to make his appearance until rather late in the afternoon. Meanwhile we had all adjourned to the general living-room, where a heavy coal fire blazed on the hearth (for once), and candles were lighted in profusion. The children sang songs of the north, accompanied by their governess. I can see their quaint faces now, gathered about the piano. Lord Scorp, McT. and myself indulged in various artistic discussions and badinage; Mrs. Barfleur, the aunt, told me the brilliant story of her husband’s life,--a great naturalistic philosopher and novelist,--and finally after coffee, sherry, nuts and much music and songs,--some comic ones by Gerard Barfleur,--we retired for the night.