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Fairleigh, looking at it. “This is a surprise!”
    It was piled high with presents, large and small, all wrapped in luxurious sorts of wrapping paper.
    â€œMy husband is a terrible child,” whispered Eleanor Fairleigh to Celia Woodstock. “He loves presents. We put them here every year, and he always pretends to be surprised.”
    Oliver Fairleigh had capered over to the presents and was rummaging around in the pile with little porcine snuffles of glee.“‘From Bella, with love!’ Goodness me! It’s quite heavy. What can it be? From Terence, this one: what a nice big parcel. It can’t be handkerchiefs, that’s a blessing. Leave handkerchiefs for people who like picking their noses. This is Eleanor’s—it rattles. What can that be? Cuff links, perhaps? Not a lighter, anyway. I’m not supposed to smoke, Celia, my dear”—he drew Mrs. Woodstock into the family group by the hand—“and my wife would regard a lighter as an encouragement. And here’s one from Miss Cozzens. How very friendly. Perhaps I should have invited her to be with us tonight. Do you think it was remiss of me, Eleanor, my dear? Will she hold it against me?”
    Oliver Fairleigh’s voice trailed away as he finished inspecting the pile of presents. There was an awkwardness as everyone realized that there seemed to be one lacking. Oliver Fairleigh looked toward Mark. He said nothing. Then, rubbing his hands, he flashed his teeth into a rather frightening smile—Celia Woodstock remembered last Sunday, and shivered suddenly—and said:
    â€œNow, Eleanor, if you’ll be so good as to see to the coffee, I’ll pour the liqueurs.”
    â€œOh, Oliver, should you? Why don’t you open your presents first?”
    Oliver Fairleigh looked longingly at the decanters along the shelf of the open cupboard behind the desk, and longingly at the presents in their gaudy pile. The presents won.
    â€œWell, well,” he said; “perhaps if I just took a peep . . .”
    The world is divided into those who eat their meat first, and those who eat their vegetables. Oliver Fairleigh was decidedly of the former type. Ignoring Miss Cozzens’s small, square box, he dived for Bella’s present, and handled it lovingly: a substantial, heavy, and interesting parcel. His podgy fingers struggled with the wrapping, and when he had got it off he dived down to look at the contents, screening them from the gaze of the little knot of people round him. Little snorts of delight and appreciation were heard, and ecstatic shakings of the shoulders.
    â€œLook!” he said. “Look!” The others regarded this as licenseto swoop down around him, only Bella standing a little aloof, smiling to herself. “Caleb Williams,” said Oliver Fairleigh. “The first edition. What a find!” He straightened and turned to Celia Woodstock. “It’s the first detective story, you know, or more or less. Bella, my dear, you are a dreadful daughter. You must have spent three months’ salary. I have an awful presentiment that I shall be forced to subsidize my own birthday present.”
    He kissed her heartily, and she put her arms elegantly around his thick publican’s neck.
    â€œYou’re very unfair, Daddy. I haven’t asked you for a penny since I started work.”
    â€œThat,” said Oliver Fairleigh, who never lost his realism in money matters, “is because you know how to work me up to offering it whenever you find you need it.”
    Terence’s present was a substantial and handsome silk dressing gown, beamingly received. Eleanor’s was indeed cuff links, traditional and solid, and she was given a husbandly kiss of thanks. Miss Cozzens’s was handkerchiefs.
    â€œOh, how fortunate I didn’t ask her tonight,” said Sir Oliver. “It would have been very embarrassing. What could I have said? You know, one of her great