“Oh, Josephine, how sweet of you!” cried Julia.

Cyril Scott giggled.

“Good egg!  Champion idea, Josey, my lass.  Eh?  What—!” cried Jim.  “Why not carry it out—­eh?  Why not?  Most attractive.”  He leaned forward over Josephine, and grinned.

“Oh, no!” expostulated Josephine.  “It all sounds so silly now.  No.  Let us go indoors and go to bed.”

“No, Josephine dear—­No!  It’s a lovely idea!” cried Julia.  “Let’s get candles and lanterns and things—­”

“Let’s!” grinned Jim.  “Let’s, everybody—­let’s.”

“Shall we really?” asked Robert.  “Shall we illuminate one of the fir-trees by the lawn?”

“Yes!  How lovely!” cried Julia.  “I’ll fetch the candles.”

“The women must put on warm cloaks,” said Robert.

They trooped indoors for coats and wraps and candles and lanterns.  Then, lighted by a bicycle lamp, they trooped off to the shed to twist wire round the candles for holders.  They clustered round the bench.

“I say,” said Julia, “doesn’t Cyril look like a pilot on a stormy night!  Oh, I say—!” and she went into one of her hurried laughs.

They all looked at Cyril Scott, who was standing sheepishly in the background, in a very large overcoat, smoking a large pipe.  The young man was uncomfortable, but assumed a stoic air of philosophic indifference.

Soon they were busy round a prickly fir-tree at the end of the lawn.  Jim stood in the background vaguely staring.  The bicycle lamp sent a beam of strong white light deep into the uncanny foliage, heads clustered and hands worked.  The night above was silent, dim.  There was no wind.  In the near distance they could hear the panting of some engine at the colliery.

“Shall we light them as we fix them,” asked Robert, “or save them for one grand rocket at the end?”

“Oh, as we do them,” said Cyril Scott, who had lacerated his fingers and wanted to see some reward.

A match spluttered.  One naked little flame sprang alight among the dark foliage.  The candle burned tremulously, naked.  They all were silent.

“We ought to do a ritual dance!  We ought to worship the tree,” sang Julia, in her high voice.

“Hold on a minute.  We’ll have a little more illumination,” said Robert.

“Why yes.  We want more than one candle,” said Josephine.

But Julia had dropped the cloak in which she was huddled, and with arms slung asunder was sliding, waving, crouching in a pas seul before the tree, looking like an animated bough herself.

Jim, who was hugging his pipe in the background, broke into a short, harsh, cackling laugh.

“Aren’t we fools!” he cried.  “What?  Oh, God’s love, aren’t we fools!”

“No—­why?” cried Josephine, amused but resentful.

But Jim vouchsafed nothing further, only stood like a Red Indian gripping his pipe.