The subdued clangour of the gong, sounded for breakfast, gave him an excuse for turning suddenly round and watching the door of the room.

A few moments later there came to him a faint odour of Harris tweed, followed immediately by the short, somewhat stout figure of his master—­a man whose mild, fresh, pink, round face seemed to find salvation, as it were, at the last moment, in a neatly-pointed auburn beard.

Adrian Berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness which the dining-room had at this hour.  Pathetically a creature of habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that went to symbolise for him the time and the place.  Here were the immediate scents of dry toast, of China tea of napery fresh from the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled eggs give out through their unbroken shells.  And as a permanent base to these there was the scent of much-polished Chippendale, and of bees’-waxed parquet, and of Persian rugs.  To-day, moreover, crowning the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that topped the Queen Anne mirror and the Mantegna prints.

Coming forward into the room, Mr. Berridge greeted the canary.  “Well, Amber, old fellow,” he said, “a happy Christmas to you!” Affectionately he pushed the tip of a plump white finger between the bars.  “Tweet!” he added.

“Tweet!” answered the bird, hopping to and fro along his perch.

“Quite an old-fashioned Christmas, Amber!” said Mr. Berridge, turning to scan the weather.  At sight of the robin, a little spasm of pain contracted his face.  A shine of tears came to his prominent pale eyes, and he turned quickly away.  Just at that moment, heralded by a slight fragrance of old lace and of that peculiar, almost unseizable odour that uncut turquoises have, Mrs. Berridge appeared.

“What is the matter, Adrian?” she asked quickly.  She glanced sideways into the Queen Anne mirror, her hand fluttering, like a pale moth, to her hair, which she always wore braided in a fashion she had derived from Pollaiuolo’s St. Ursula.

“Nothing, Jacynth—­nothing,” he answered with a lightness that carried no conviction; and he made behind his back a gesture to frighten away the robin.

“Amber isn’t unwell, is he?” She came quickly to the cage.  Amber executed for her a roulade of great sweetness.  His voice had not perhaps the fullness for which it had been noted in earlier years; but the art with which he managed it was as exquisite as ever.  It was clear to his audience that the veteran artist was hale and hearty.

But Jacynth, relieved on one point, had a misgiving on another.  “This groundsel doesn’t look very fresh, does it?” she murmured, withdrawing the sprig from the bars.  She rang the bell, and when the servant came in answer to it said, “Oh Jenny, will you please bring up another piece of groundsel for Master Amber?  I don’t think this one is quite fresh.”