ss. But they came in swarms,
and they gobbled their food in a disgusting fashion, not trifling
coquettishly with it as birds should. The reason for this, the canary
knew, was that they were hungry; and of that he was sorry. He hated
to think how much destitution there was in the world; and he could
not help thinking about it when samples of it were thrust under
his notice. That was the principal reason why he was glad that the
window-sill was strewn no more and seldom visited.

He would much rather not have seen this solitary applicant. The two
eyes fixed on his made him feel very uncomfortable. And yet, for fear
of seeming to be outfaced, he did not like to look away.

The subdued clangour of the gong, sounded for breakfast, gave him an
excuse for turning suddenly round and watching the door of the room.

A few moments later there came to him a faint odour of Harris tweed,
followed immediately by the short, somewhat stout figure of his
master--a man whose mild, fresh, pink, round face seemed to find
salvation, as it were, at the last moment, in a neatly-pointed auburn
beard.

Adrian Berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed
eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness
which the dining-room had at this hour. Pathetically a creature of
habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that
went to symbolise for him the time and the place. Here were the
immediate scents of dry toast, of China tea of napery fresh from
the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled
eggs give out through their unbroken shells. And as a permanent base
to these there was the scent of much-polished Chippendale, and of
bees'-waxed parquet, and of Persian rugs. To-day, moreover, crowning
the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that
topped the Queen Anne mirror and the Mantegna prints.

Coming forward into the room, Mr. Berridge greeted the canary.
"Well, Amber, old fellow," he said, "a happy Christmas to you!"
Affectionately he pushed the tip of a plump white finger between the
bars. "Tweet!" he added.

"Tweet!" answered the bird, hopping to and fro along his perch.

"Quite an old-fashioned Christmas, Amber!" said Mr. Berridge, turning
to scan the weather. At sight of the robin, a little spasm of pain
contracted his face. A shine of tears came to his prominent pale eyes,
and he turned quickly away. Just at that moment, heralded by a slight
f