Margaret Elizabeth's narrative was
punctured, as Mrs. Partington would have said, with many exclamations
such as these.

"I own you were right. It isn't as bad as it seemed. He is really very
gentlemanly and nice. Still, it is a bit awkward too," she added
thoughtfully.

It is possible she was thinking of Mrs. Gerrard Pennington at the
moment.

CHAPTER TEN

_In which the Little Red Chimney keeps Festival, and the Candy Man
receives an unexpected Invitation._

The Candy Man, letting himself in at his lodging house, one gloomy
Sunday afternoon, stumbled upon a deputation of pigeons, in a state
of fluttering impatience.

"She said to wait, and we thought you were never, never coming!" was
their chorus.

"Never is a long day," said the Candy Man. "What will you have?"

It appeared they were the bearers of a missive which read briefly and
to the point: "Her ladyship requests the pleasure of the Candy Man's
presence at the Pigeons' Christmas Tree, at four o'clock this
afternoon."

It had seemed to the Candy Man that he was altogether outside the
holiday world, that for him Christmas had ended with his visit to the
hospital that afternoon. He had ventured to send a basket of fruit to
his fellow lodgers, the invalid professor and his wife, and had played
Santa Claus to two or three newsboys who frequented the Y.M.C.A. corner
and to the small Malones, and the state of his exchequer scarcely
warranted anything more. The social calendar in the morning paper
overflowed with festivities for the week, and he had pleased his fancy
by picturing Miss Bentley, radiant and lovely, in the midst of them. He,
the lonely Candy Man, without the pale, could yet enjoy her pleasure in
imagination. And lo! this lonely Candy Man was bidden to a tree on
Christmas Eve, by her ladyship. He could not believe his eyes.

"It takes you a long time to read it," said Virginia. "You'd better
come. It's late."

Dark was beginning to fall outside, but the Little Red Chimney room was
full of firelight when the Candy Man was ushered in, in the wake of the
children, by cordial Uncle Bob. It was a frolicsome, magical light that
played about a row of red stockings hanging from the shelf above it;
that advanced to the farthest corner and then retreated; that coaxed and
dared the unlighted Christmas tree by the piano to wake up and do its
part; that gleamed in Miss Bentley's hair as she seated the pigeons in
a semicircle on the rug.

Was it