Constraint in the mellowing halo of a Christmas eve supper where holly
and a Yule-log blazed and the winter wind frostily rattled the
checker-paned windows of the sitting-room in jealous spleen, fled to
join the Doctor's rheumatism.
By the time the grandfather's clock struck seven through a haze of
holly, the Doctor had pokered the Yule-log into a frenzied shower of
gold; apples and nuts were steadily disappearing from a basket by the
Doctor's chair and the Doctor himself was relating an original Christmas
tale of adventure, born of uncommon inspiration and excitement, to a
huddled group with circular eyes and contented stomachs. But
Muggs--inimitable workman--his small face partially obscured by the
biggest apple in the basket, had not yet spoken, and Jim, the shy,
sullen little boy to whom Roger had taken a fancy because he was lame,
had met the Doctor's eyes but once, and then with a rush of color.
Now, whether it was the scheming excitement of a busy day or the warmth
of a busy log or the rambling yarn of a busy Doctor, who may say?
Certainly Roger fell asleep at a fictional crisis and remained asleep
for all that Jim furtively nudged him.
"There!" said the Doctor as the clock struck eight, "that's all.
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