“Oh, Stephen!  Stephen!” Under her breath the words came wearily.  “We were so foolish, Stephen; such silly children to give each other up!  All through the year I know, but never as I do at Christmas.  And we—­we are each other’s, Stephen!” With a proud uplifting of her head she got up.  “I am a child,” she said, “a child who wants what it once refused to have.  But until he understood—­” Quickly she put out the light.

CHAPTER III

He was ashamed of himself for being ashamed.  Why on earth should he hesitate to tell Peterkin he would dine alone on Christmas day?  It was none of Peterkin’s business how he dined, or where, or with whom.  And still he had not brought himself to the point of informing Peterkin, by his order for dinner at home, that he was not leaving town for the holidays, that he was not invited to dine with any one else, and that there was no one he cared to invite to dine with him.  It was the 22d of December, and the custodian in charge of his domestic arrangements had not yet been told what his plans were for the 25th.  He had no plans.

He might go, of course, to one of his clubs.  But worse than telling Peterkin that he would dine alone would be the public avowal of having nowhere to go which dining at the club would not only indicate, but affirm.  Besides, at Christmas a club was ghastly, and the few who dropped in had a half-shamed air at being there and got out as quickly as possible.  He could go to Hallsboro, but Hallsboro no longer bore even a semblance to the little town in which he had been born—­had, indeed, become something of a big city, bustling, busy, and new, and offensively up-to-date; and nowhere else did he feel so much a stranger as in the place he had once called home.  He was but twelve when his parents moved away, and eight months later died within a week of each other, and for years he had not been back.  Had there been brothers and sisters—­Well, there were no brothers and sisters, and by this time he should be used to the fact that he was very much alone in the world.

Hands in his pockets, Stephen Van Landing leaned back in his chair and looked across the room at a picture on the wall.  He did not see the picture; he saw, instead, certain things that were not pleasant to see.  No, he would not go to Hallsboro for Christmas.

Turning off the light in his office and closing the door with unnecessary energy, Van Landing walked down the hall to the elevator, then turned away and toward the steps.  Reaching the street, he hesitated as to the car he should take, whether one up-town to his club or one across to his apartment, and as he waited he watched the hurrying crowd with eyes in which were baffled impatience and perplexity.  It was incomprehensible, the shopping craze at this season of the year.  He wished there was no such season.  Save for his very young childhood there were few happy memories connected with it, but only