“Nonsense.  You will not be allowed to leave the room until you have had some,” retorted his sister, as she sprang at him and attempted to pinion his arms.  “We allow no ill-temper on Christmas Eve, especially as we’ve got a surprise for you—­a beautiful, real surprise.  Guess who is coming this morning to stay till New Year!”

Queenie had come up by this time, and the two girls between them brought their brother back to the table, where the younger sister began to pour out his coffee.

But Max refused to show the slightest interest in the coming guest, and would not attempt to guess who it was.  So they had to tell him.

“It was all on your account that we asked her,” said Doreen, hurt by his indifference.  “You took such a fancy to her, and she to you, apparently, at the Hutchinsons’ dance, that we thought you’d be delighted. Now, don’t you know who it is?”

To their great disappointment, both girls saw that he didn’t.  Mr. Wedmore, from the other end of the room, was observing this little incident with considerable annoyance.  The young lady in question, Miss Mildred Appleby, was very pretty, and would be well dowered, and Mr. Wedmore had entered heartily into the plan of inviting her to spend Christmas with them, in the hope that Max would propose, be accepted, and that he would then make up his mind to settle.

“Why, it’s Mildred Appleby,” said Doreen, impatiently, when her brother’s blank look had given her the wrong answer.  “Surely, you don’t mean to say you’ve forgotten all about her?”

“Oh, no, I remember her,” answered Max, indifferently.  “Tall girl with a fashion-plate face, waltzes pretty well and can’t talk.  Yes, I remember her, of course.”

“Is that all you have to say about her?” cried Doreen, betraying her disappointment.  “Why, a month ago she was the nicest and the jolliest and the everythingest girl you had ever met.”

“He’s seen somebody else since then,” remarked the observant Queenie, in her dry, little voice.  “When he was in town yesterday, perhaps.”

Max looked at his sister with a curious expression.  Was she right?  Had he, in that adventurous thirty-six hours in London, seen somebody who took the color out of all the other girls he had ever met?  He asked himself this question when Queenie’s shrewd eyes met his, and he remembered the strange sensation he had felt at the touch of Carrie’s hand, at the sound of her voice.

Before he could answer his sister, Mr. Wedmore spoke impatiently: 

“Rubbish!” cried he, testily.  “Every young man thinks it the proper thing to talk like that, as if no girl was good enough for him.  Miss Appleby is a charming girl, and she will find plenty of admirers without waiting for Max’s valuable adoration.”

He had much better not have spoken, blundering old papa that he was.  And both daughters thought so, as they saw Max raise his eyebrows and gather in all the details of the little plot in one sweeping glance at the faces around him.  He drank his coffee, but he could not eat.  Doreen sat watching him, ready to spring upon him at the first possible moment, and to carry him off for the tete-a-tete he was so anxious to put off.