n
she rose from the supper table to bid him a formal good-night, he very
abruptly reverted to the subject.

"If you really think you can stand the racket on Christmas Eve, I hope
you will join the party. There will be only four or five besides myself.
I have never invited the womenkind."

"Perhaps by next Christmas I shall have got to know them a little," said
Doris, "and then we can invite them too. Thank you for asking me, Jeff.
I'll come."

But yet she viewed the prospect with considerable misgiving, and would
have thankfully foregone the ordeal, if she had not felt constrained to
face it.

The preparations went forward under Granny Grimshaw's guidance without a
hitch, but they were kept busy up to the last moment, and on the day
before Christmas Eve Doris scribbled a hasty note to Hugh Chesyl,
excusing herself from attending the meet.

It was the only thing to be done, for she could not let him expect her
in vain, but she regretted it later when at the breakfast-table the
following day her husband silently handed to her Hugh's reply.

Hugh had written to convey his good wishes for Christmas, and this she
explained to Jeff; but he received her explanation in utter silence, and
she forthwith abandoned the subject. A smouldering resentment began to
burn within her. What right had he to treat Hugh's friendship with her
as a thing to be ashamed of? She longed to ask him, but would not risk
an open rupture. She knew that if she gave her indignation rein she
would not be able to control it.

So the matter passed, and she slipped Hugh's note into her bosom with a
sense of outraged pride that went with her throughout the day. It was
still present with her like an evil spirit when she went to her room to
dress.

She had not much time at her disposal, and she slipped into her black
evening gown with a passing wonder as to how Jeff's friends would be
attired. Descending again, she found Jim Dawlish fixing a piece of
mistletoe over the parlour door, and smiled at his occupation.

He smiled at her in a fashion that sent the blood suddenly and hotly to
her face, and she passed on to the kitchen, erect and quivering with
anger.

"Lor', my dearie, what a pretty picture you be, to be sure!" was Granny
Grimshaw's greeting, and again a tremor of misgiving went through the
girl's heart. Had she made herself too pretty for the occasion?

She mustered spirit, however, to laugh at the compliment, and busied
herself with the