IX
FOR Christmas day the weather turned mild again. There would be a family dinner in the evening, but St. Peter was going to have the whole day to himself, in the old house. He asked his wife to put him up some sandwiches, so that he needn’t come back for lunch. He kept a few bottles of sherry in his study, in the old chest under the forms. Fortunately he had brought back a great deal of it from his last trip to Spain. It wasn’t foresight—Prohibition was then unthinkable —but a lucky accident. He had gone with his inn¬ keeper to an auction, and bought in a dozen dozens of a sherry that went very cheap. He came home by the City of Mexico and got the wine through without duty.
As he was crossing the park with his sandwiches, he met Augusta coming back from Mass.
“Are you still going to the old house, Professor?” she asked reproachfully, her face smiling at him between her stiff black fur collar and her stiff black hat.
“Oh, yes, Augusta, but it’s not the same. I miss you. There are never any new dresses on my ladies in the evening now. Won’t you come in
—98—
