Then, quite suddenly, Hildegarde came toward him, took hold of the lapel of his coat. "Daddy, do you know you haven't said?—'A Merry Christmas!'"
A moment's suspense. Then all the darkness went out of his face. "Haven't I? Well, why should I? I'm not merry. Life is just one darned thing after another."
"Are things darned-er this morning than usual?"
"Yes. I've been up all night. And if I go to bed, I can't sleep. And then to find you—keeping things from me—"
She was patting the lapel of his coat, smoothing it, playing little tunes with her fingers on it. "You see, I've never been bound much by rules. I wanted to go—and I went."
He was apologetic. "I don't want to bind you, Hildegarde."
Her cheek was against his shoulder. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"'A Merry Christmas.'"
It seemed to Crispin that he had never seen anything so charming as her coaxing way with her father. Ignoring the blackness of his mood, bringing him out of the darkness.
Suddenly Carew caught up his daughter's hand and kissed it.
"A thousand Merry Christmases, Hildegarde! Is that the way you want it?"
"Oh, yes."
His arm went around her, and over her head he looked at Crispin. "You are not to make love to her, do you understand? She's too young, and you're
