"
When Bartley had finished dressing for dinner he went into his study,
where he found his wife arranging flowers on his writing-table.
"These pink roses just came from Mrs. Hastings," she said, smiling, "and
I am sure she meant them for you."
Bartley looked about with an air of satisfaction at the greens and the
wreaths in the windows. "Have you a moment, Winifred? I have just now
been thinking that this is our twelfth Christmas. Can you realize it?"
He went up to the table and took her hands away from the flowers, drying
them with his pocket handkerchief. "They've been awfully happy ones, all
of them, haven't they?" He took her in his arms and bent back, lifting
her a little and giving her a long kiss. "You are happy, aren't you
Winifred? More than anything else in the world, I want you to be happy.
Sometimes, of late, I've thought you looked as if you were troubled."
"No; it's only when you are troubled and harassed that I feel worried,
Bartley. I wish you always seemed as you do to-night. But you don't,
always." She looked earnestly and inquiringly into his eyes.
Alexander took her two hands from his shoulders and swung them back and
forth in his own, laughing his big blond laugh.
"I'm growing older, my dear; that's what you feel. Now, may I show you
something? I meant to save them until to-morrow, but I want you to
wear them to-night." He took a little leather box out of his pocket and
opened it. On the white velvet lay two long pendants of curiously worked
gold, set with pearls.
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