"No, but Mrs. Machin will if she finds out; we shall have to wash the cups."
The kitchen clock, with red roses on its dial, struck twelve. "We had better go to bed," said Derek. "I'll get a candle and light you to your room."
"Rot," said Edmund. "I'm going to sleep with you in that big four-poster."
"Good. It will be a regular Christmas Eve. We should hang up our stockings. Do you remember the time" . . . . Remembrances occupied them till they were in bed. They did not draw the blind, and the clear, wintry moonlight flooded the room. They stretched luxuriously side by side on the soft feather bed, their full, firm limbs outlined under the blankets. They lay in drowsy silence breathing the sharp, pure air that came in from the lake.
At last Derek said; "You remember those Indians I had here?"
"Of course."
"There was one young girl . . . she was really lovely . . . just half-civilized, you know . . . and her eyes—like a fawn's. She liked me and I liked her. One couldn't help it. Do you know what I mean? She was more like a tender, timid, audacious little animal than a woman. Only seventeen."
"Tell me about her," said Edmund, turning on his side and putting one arm across his brother.
They lay awake talking for a long time.
Edmund shivered and laughed on Christmas morning as he splashed the icy water from the ewer over his face and neck. From the kitchen came the sound of Phœbe's voice singing "Christians Awake," as she turned the separator. He had been mightily pleased with the cheque Derek had given him impulsively, as soon as they were out of bed, and
