Opening the door, he came out on to the landing as the party from church ascended the stairs. There was a hurried interchange of greetings. Eustace emerged from his room while they were talking, said, “Cold, what?” in an abstracted sort of voice. “I suppose the post isn’t in yet. Morning, Amy. Happy Christmas, Ruth.” He ignored Brand, who whispered to his eldest sister. “He had no luck, I suppose. That would account for his sour temper. It must be galling to a professional shark to find a tenderfoot has jumped his claim.”
Amy stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Ask Eustace. But not till after breakfast. After all, it is Christmas Day.” And, laughing, he ran down the stairs.
The Grays, with embarrassed comments and averted eyes, handed parcels to one another in a shamefaced sort of way, secretly pricing both what they received and the gifts each donor gave to other members of the family. Brand’s share was a collar-box, some cuff-links, an account book, some handkerchiefs from Olivia (he was sure these had been sent to Eustace and been discarded as unsuitable for him), a leather stamp-book, a bookmarker, two comic golfing calendars (he didn’t play golf), and an illustrated Christmas legend. He kept the cuff-links and left everything else behind him when he went. The handkerchiefs he gave to Moulton.
Everyone except Adrian came down to breakfast, though no one except Ruth and her husband looked very festive. And even they sighed from time to time, thinking of Christmas as it should be when one has young daughters to come battering on the door at five in the morning with demands to be allowed to examine the contents of their stockings, and, permission obtained, to come scuffling into bed, to exult over everything, small or great, concealed therein.
Old Mrs. Gray was occupied with letters and cards from the survivors of her own youth. Eustace was clearly nervous; he had received a letter with a City postmark, and, after reading this through, he thrust it into his pocket, and started eating ham in a hurried and abstracted manner. Olivia caught the infection and talked a great deal, very brightly and smartly, after the manner of Dot and Lalage in her letters. Laura surveyed Brand and Eustace with a cool amusement and reflected on the peculiarity of her husband’s relations. But possibly all in-laws were like this. It was like being one kind of an animal and being penned in the Zoo with another kind. Presumably one might get a certain amusement of a cynical kind from observing their qualities. She knew well enough what they thought of her—a bad bargain. Oh, well, it mattered very little, she supposed. Those early ideas, when she had thought of life as a crusade, a challenge, an affair of flame and endeavour, those died when you had been married to Richard Gray for some years. She smiled and passed her cup for tea.
Richard meanwhile was exclaiming at the absurdity of the non-appearance of the daily paper, simply because it was Christmas Day, and, being started, delivered himself of a trenchant though mercifully brief lecture on idleness in industry and its effect on our export trade, with special reference to German pianos.
Isobel sat pale and silent, eating toast. A chance reference by Ruth to Pat set her nerves quivering for the little dead Honor. Unlike Laura, she couldn’t steel her heart to memory or to hope, and life seemed to her unpardonable and intolerable.
Amy said acidly, “You seem very gay this morning, Brand.” And Eustace remarked in sour tones that perhaps he’d been fortunate in his presents.
Brand laughed. “Oh, very fortunate. You know, I suppose?” He lifted his eyebrows and indicated the mystified expressions on the faces of the rest of the party.
Eustace said blankly, “Know? What? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But then,” he added with a peevish malice that drew the attention of the whole table towards him, “I never do understand your motives, except, of course, a visit like this.”
Brand, who could normally be trusted to fire up at so discourteous a rejoinder, only said pleasantly, “A touch of nature—you know the rest, I expect,” at which even his grandmother was sufficiently surprised to rouse herself and say, “Really, Brand, you seem to have changed your spots completely since yesterday.”
Brand said sincerely, “It’s quite true, I don’t feel the same man. You know—hope lost, all lost. That’s how I was when I came down here. To-day, of course, I’ve something to look forward to. It’s the first time—no, the second—in my life I remember experiencing the legendary Christmas feeling. Amy, you’ve no marmalade.”
As the meal drew on, the continued absence of Adrian began to attract comment and conjecture. “It’s very unlike him not to be here on Christmas morning,” complained Olivia, as though his non-appearance pointed a particular insult to herself.
“Perhaps he feels he saw enough of his family yesterday,” countered Laura in her gay sarcastic voice.
Amy refused to smile. She only said, with an ominous folding of her lips, “I shouldn’t be surprised if he is tired. He’s had enough to make him.” She rang a bell, and, when the servant appeared, said, “Moulton, will you see if Mr. Gray is all right, and tell him that we have been at breakfast for some time?”
On an impulse Brand got up and went to the sideboard to cut some ham he didn’t want. The sideboard was a huge old-fashioned affair, with panels of glass let into the back. Brand, aware that the moment of discovery was upon them, wished to observe their faces without himself being noticed. He cut the ham slowly, half turning to ask if he could help anyone else.
“We’ve all finished, I think,” said Amy, with her false smile.
Brand returned smoothly, “You forget, my dear, ham for breakfast is quite a treat for me.” Then warned himself, “Careful, you
