bear to think of him alone all
Christmas Day, with only the ghosts of happier years to haunt him."

"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly. "He
could invite us to supper. Why don't you propose it, Livy? You seem
to say anything that comes into your head. A good bowl of steaming
punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away. I would
undertake to amuse him." But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.

"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be
serious. Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can. Shall
you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"

"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way,
and without consulting my visiting list? Well, if you must know," as
Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the
Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday.
The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers. I
don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."

"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone.
"Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a
surprise visit on Christmas evening. We are always back by six, and I
know he does not dine until half-past seven. Do you think I dare
venture? You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."

"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in
his hall,'" spouted Marcus. And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well,
you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got
snubbed. Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the
wrong way."

"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully. "Now
I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."

"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained
and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair. He had sat up
late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as
his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch
of frost in it, had made him sleepy.

Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with
little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt
Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of
Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him _The Newcomes_,
and this year she had fixed on _Esmond_.

Marcus was devoted to