“Well, now, Dane, I do have some sentiment.”
“I should think you had. There are times when you are sticky with it.”
“All right, beast. I won’t kiss you for a week.” She wriggled out of the hammock, pretending to be mightily offended, and stood frowning at him. She was piqued that he had made no move to hold her back. He merely smiled mockingly up at her.
“I suppose you think you could keep that resolution,” he said, his eyes on hers.
“I could.” She glared back defiantly.
“Well, it would be a pyrrhic victory if ever there was one,” he smiled.
She rudely poked out her tongue at him, and walked to the verandah steps, and looked out into the garden.
He looked at her for a few minutes as she stood profiled against a mass of honeysuckle, then he reached for his pipe and tobacco and began to smoke.
It was a clear evening, with the promise of fine weather for Christmas and Boxing days. The first stars projected their feeble light through the last reflection of a very red sunset. Now and again the sharp cry of a weka in the bush behind or the call of a morepork in the pines cut the air. A few crickets already reminded an optimistic world that this summer would go the way of all others as they sang of the falling of the leaves and the coming of the deadly winds.
Valerie turned from the steps, walked back to the hammock, leaned down over Dane and kissed his hair. Then she went off through the door into the study.
After a short silence the opening bars of one of his favourite Preludes floated out to Dane. He put down his pipe, settled back in his cushions, and threw his arm across his face with a feeling of great content. It was a perfect Christmas Eve.
