“My father,” she resumed, “is just as stupid as my father-in-law and they have both continued to make us just as uncomfortable as possible.  The cause of the trouble is ridiculous.  There’s nothing against my husband or me, you understand; it’s simply a bitter jealousy between the two men due to the fact that they are rival collectors.”

The Hopper stared blankly.  The only collectors with whom he had enjoyed any acquaintance were persons who presented bills for payment.

“They are collectors,” Muriel hastened to explain, “of ceramics—­precious porcelains and that sort of thing.”

“Yes’m,” assented The Hopper, who hadn’t the faintest notion of what she meant.

“For years, whenever there have been important sales of these things, which men fight for and are willing to die for—­whenever there has been something specially fine in the market, my father-in-law—­he’s Mr. Talbot—­and Mr. Wilton—­he’s my father—­have bid for them.  There are auctions, you know, and people come from all over the world looking for a chance to buy the rarest pieces.  They’ve explored China and Japan hunting for prizes and they are experts—­men of rare taste and judgment—­what you call connoisseurs.”

The Hopper nodded gravely at the unfamiliar word, convinced that not only were Muriel and her husband quite insane, but that they had inherited the infirmity.

“The trouble has been,” Muriel continued, “that Mr. Talbot and my father both like the same kind of thing; and when one has got something the other wanted, of course it has added to the ill-feeling.  This has been going on for years and recently they have grown more bitter.  When Roger and I ran off and got married, that didn’t help matters any; but just within a few days something has happened to make things much worse than ever.”

The Hopper’s complete absorption in this novel recital was so manifest that she put down the revolver with which she had been idling and folded her hands.

“Thank ye, miss,” mumbled The Hopper.

“Only last week,” Muriel continued, “my father-in-law bought one of those pottery treasures—­a plum-blossom vase made in China hundreds of years ago and very, very valuable.  It belonged to a Philadelphia collector who died not long ago and Mr. Talbot bought it from the executor of the estate, who happened to be an old friend of his.  Father was very angry, for he had been led to believe that this vase was going to be offered at auction and he’d have a chance to bid on it.  And just before that father had got hold of a jar—­a perfectly wonderful piece of red Lang-Yao—­that collectors everywhere have coveted for years.  This made Mr. Talbot furious at father.  My husband is at his father’s now trying to make him see the folly of all this, and I visited my father to-day to try to persuade him to stop being so foolish.  You see I wanted us all to be happy for Christmas!  Of course, Christmas ought to be a time of gladness for everybody.  Even people in your—­er—­profession must feel that Christmas is one day in the year when all hard feelings should be forgotten and everybody should try to make others happy.”