ot Mr. Clark deceived Mrs. Clark might be a matter of
question. Mr. Clark was not good at deception. Mrs. Clark was better at
it; but then, to-night was a night of peace and good-will, and since her
husband had returned she was willing to forgive even Livingstone.

CHAPTER VII

Livingstone, at this moment, was not feeling as wealthy as the row of
figures in clean-cut lines that were now beginning to be almost
constantly before his eyes might have seemed to warrant. He was sitting
sunk deep in his cushioned arm-chair. The tweaks in his forehead that
had annoyed him earlier in the evening had changed to twinges, and the
twinges had now given place to a dull, steady ache. And every thought of
his wealth brought that picture of seven staring figures before his
eyes, whilst, in place of the glow which they had brought at first, he
now at every recollection of them had a cold thrill of apprehension lest
they might appear.

James's inquiry, "Shall you be dining at home to-morrow?" had recurred
to him and now disturbed him. It was a simple question; nothing
remarkable in it. It now came to him that to-morrow was Christmas Day,
and he had forgotten it. This was remarkable. He had never forgotten it
before, but this year he had been working so hard and had been so
engrossed he had not thought of it. Even this reflection brought the
spectral figures back sharply outlined before his eyes. They stayed
longer now. He must think of something else.

He thought of Christmas. This was the first Christmas he had ever been
at home by himself. A Christmas dinner alone! Who had ever heard of such
a thing! He must go out to dinner, of course. He glanced over at his
table where James always put his mail. Everything was in perfect order:
the book he had read the night before; the evening paper and the last
financial quotation were all there; but not a letter. James must have
forgot them.

He turned to rise and ring the bell and glanced across the room towards
it. What a dark room it was! What miserable gas!

He turned up the light at his hand. It did not help perceptibly. He sank
back. What selfish dogs people were, he reflected. Of all the hosts of
people he knew,--people who had entertained him and whom he had
entertained,--not one had thought to invite him to the Christmas dinner.
A dozen families at whose houses he had often been entertained flashed
across his mind. Why, years ago he used to have a half-dozen invitations
to C