The little Adamses were allowed to steal in and listen, on condition they never uttered a word to break the spell of Colonel Rossiter’s thoughts.

I think also Rossiter felt his wife had been unjustly snubbed by the great ladies and the off-hand, harum-scarum young war-workers; so he flatly declined to have any of them messing around his studio or initiated into his research work.  It was intimated that the Rossiter Thursday afternoons of long ago would not be resumed until after the peace.  Linda therefore derived much consolation and satisfaction for past injuries to her pride when Lady Vera—­or Victoria—­Freebooter called one day just before Christmas and said “Oh—­er—­mother’s let our house till February and thinks we’d better—­I mean the Marrybone Guild of war-workers—­meet at your house instead”; and she, Linda, had the opportunity of replying:  “Oh, I’m sorry, but It’s QUITE impossible.  The Professor—­I mean, Colonel Rossiter—­and I are so very busy ... we are seeing no one just now.  Indeed we’ve enlisted all the servants to help the Colonel in his work, so I can’t even offer you a cup of tea....  I must rush back at once....  You’ll excuse me?”

“That Rossiter woman is quite off her head with grandeur,” said Lady Vera to Lady Helen.  “I expect Uncle Algy has let out that her husband is in the New Year’s honours.”

And so he was.  But Uncle Algy, though he might have babbled to his nieces, had not written a word to the Rossiters.  So they just enjoyed Christmas—­too much, they thought, more than any Christmas before—­in the simple satisfaction of being Colonel and Mrs. Rossiter, all in all to each other, but rendered additionally happy by making those about them happy.  The little Adamses staggered under their presents and had a Christmas Tree to which they were allowed to ask their two grannies—­Mrs. Laidly from Fig Tree Court and Mrs. Adams from the Kilburn Laundry—­and numerous little friends from Marylebone, who had been washed and curled and crimped and adjured not to disgrace their parents, or father—­in the trenches—­would be told “as sure as I stand here.”

(The little Adamses were also warned that if they ever again were heard calling Mrs. Rossiter “Gran’ma,” they’d—­but the threat was too awful to be uttered, especially as their mother at this time was always on the verge of tears, either at getting no news of Bert or at the unforgettable kindness of Bert’s employer.)

Mrs. Rossiter, quite unaware that she was soon to be a Dame, gave Christmas entertainments at St. Dunstan’s, at the Marylebone Workhouse, and to all the wounded soldiers in the parish.  And on December 31, 1916, Michael received a note from the Prime Minister to say that His Majesty, in recognition of his exceptional services in curative surgery at the front, had been pleased to bestow on him a Knight Commandership of the Bath.  “So that, Linda, you can call yourself Lady Rossiter, and you will have to get some new cards printed for both of us.”