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He had heard it said that she had been beautiful when she was young.

He couldn't see it himself. Although she was his mother, her face didn't appeal to him. The eyes were too large for the face, and wide-eyed women, he understood, weren't supposed to be intelligent. He liked intelligent women, women who could talk of other things besides furniture and cooking. Of course there was her music, but on the whole she was just a domesticated woman. But what if she should marry again?

It would mean another man in the place that was his father's . living or dead, would remain his father's. This house could never be another man's house, that was except his, and he would rent it but never sell it, and one day he would come back and live here, perhaps sooner than he expected. Having a bishop for a great-uncle, and having been called after him, might be of some use after all. Yet suppose his mother really did decide to marry again and go on living here?

As with Gerald, the thought was not to be borne, and he quickly went out into the hall and through a side door which led directly into the garage where the holly was stacked in a corner, and he began sorting with careful precision small pieces that would hang from the china bracket that surrounded the drawing-room. In his selection he was careful to pick nothing that would scratch the delicate grey walls .

Grace was now sitting on the drawing-room couch, relaxed as she had not been for months, even years. She was listening to Jane telling her, and in some detail, how she had met the most wonderful man in the world. Why was it, she thought, all girls of seventeen talked the same when this thing hit them? It was sad, even terrible, that the illusion should be an integral part of life; there was no way of jumping over it or side-stepping it, it had to be gone through. The only comfort was, that at that age you weren't aware of how naked you were to others, nor how tiring or boring or really painfully lovable. At that age you talked young, and why not? Why not indeed.

"Yes, darling, I'm listening."

And she went on listening to how Jane had met the man of her dreams.

His name was George Aster, and

despite his being fifteen years her senior she knew it was the real thing. Grace hoped so, from the bottom of her heart she hoped so.

"I feel awful, Mammy, about having fibbed to him over my age, but, anyway, I look eighteen, I know I do; and I'm not telling him until after the holidays and things are settled in some way; and he means to have them settled, he's determined." She gave a nervous giggle then added, "You'll love him. Mammy."

"Well' Grace smiled dryly now " I may not do that exactly.

Mothers-in-law are not supposed to, you know, but already I feel that I like him. " As she said this she edged herself out of the depths of the couch and to her feet and went towards the fireplace, thinking.

Who wouldn't have affection for the man who is promising you freedom.

It was dreadful to think like this, as if she wanted to be rid of Jane.

But that wasn't true, oh no . no. She hadn't expected her to talk of marriage for a year or two yet, perhaps even longer, and she had faced up to the fact that not until the future of her younger daughter was secure in one way or another could she say to herself, "Now ... now I will live."

But what if Jane should repeat the pattern that had been her own life?

This George Aster was even older than Donald had been when they married. She mustn't let this happen, not even to save herself. She saw her reprieve sinking into the years ahead, and the panic began to rise in her again. But she quelled it. Age had not been the sword that hung between her and Donald. It would have made no difference if they had been exactly the same age, none whatever.

"Since I have felt like this I have understood about you and Daddy."

Jane looked towards her mother's back, slim as a girl's but stiffer.

The shoulders had for the moment lost their droop and appeared unusually straight, and it seemed to be to them that Jane appealed,

"Mammy, I feel I must talk about Daddy. You mustn't mind any more. Not being able to mention him has shut him out somehow, and today, especially today, I have felt him near, as if he was sort of... well, I can't explain rightly, but sort of demanding to be let in. That's why I put the flowers on his picture . " Stop it, Jane! "

Grace's sharp cry seemed to slice off Jane's voice, and after staring at her mother's back for a moment she bowed her head and bit hard on her lip.

There followed a lull full of unease, then to break the tension came the sound of carols from the driveway and at the same time the drawing-room door opened and Stephen entered, his arms full of holly.

Grace turned to him, as if in relief, and asked, "Are there just the children?" Her voice was quite calm now, and Stephen nodded to her, saying, "Yes, about a dozen of them I would say." His voice had a stiff, stilted sound.

"Will you see to them?"

He did not immediately reply, but laid the holly down by the fireplace and then said, "Andrew's at the front door."

"Andrew?" Grace repeated the name as if it was unknown to her.

"Oh, I thought he wasn't coming back until Boxing Day, or thereabouts."

"Well, he's here at the door." Stephen straightened up and his voice reached a high level as he asked, "Why can't he use the back door?"

"Don't be silly." It was Jane answering as she rose from the couch.

"You know Peggy would hit him on the head with the frying-pan if he dared put his nose in her kitchen.... " Hell hath no fury . " But why should he, anyway?"

"Well, it isn't his place to come to the front door."

"Stephen!" For the second time in minutes Grace's voice appeared to come out of the top of her head. The name was ejected so sharply that both Stephen and Jane held their positions as if competing in a game of statues.

"Don't speak like that, Andrew's not just a ... a ... he's a friend, who's always given us his spare time; he only took on the odd jobs and the garden to .... to oblige your father. I've told you that before.

Jane ... Jane, go and let Andrew in."

"Yes, yes, all right. Mammy."

Stephen turned from his mother's stare and busied himself with the holly. He was consumed now by a disturbing anger. If he had his own way he knew what he'd say to Andrew Maclntyre, "Go! And don't come back any more, inside or outside of this house!" He had never liked Andrew. And his father hadn't liked Andrew either, although he had never said anything against him;

in fact he had never heard his father speak his name, but he still knew that he hadn't liked the man.

There were a number of things he himself held against Andrew Maclntyre.

Not least of them that he had never addressed him as "Mr. Stephen' or

" Young Master Stephen' as the other villagers did. And then there was the fact that he did not call his mother by the title of "Madam' or "

Ma'am'. It was odd when he came to think about it but he couldn't remember hearing him call her anything at all, no name whatever. It was as if he considered himself her equal, the equal of them all for that matter. That was why he kept himself apart from the villagers.

He was too big for his boots, was Andrew Maclntyre, always had been.

He did not chide himself that this was no Christian way to think. His feelings towards Andrew Maclntyre had long ago become a condition which had no claim to charitable thought.

The carol singers were now attempting "Away in a Manger' in a variety of keys. The carolling became distinctly louder when the drawing-room door was opened, which was explained by Jane laughingly saying as she entered, " Beatrice is back and Yvonne insists on joining in; half of them are in the hall . Here's Andrew, Mammy. "

The man who came forward into the room could have literally filled Stephen's description and not only with regard to his feet, for he stood six feet two inches tall, yet there didn't seem enough flesh on his body to do justice to his frame; it looked like the body of a young man that needed filling out. But the delusion was dispelled when you looked at the face, for there was hardly a trace of youth in it, not that it was lined or aged; the impression came rather from the eyes, deep-set brown eyes. And the impression was added to by the white tuft of hair that sprang away from the right temple. The rest of his hair was not black, merely dark, but it took on a hue of almost Spanish blackness in contrast to the white tuft.

"Hallo, there, Andrew; do come in." Grace did not move from her place near the fire, but she lifted her hand and the gesture seemed to draw the man into the room. When he reached the head of the couch he stopped and she said, "You're back sooner than you expected. We didn't think to see you until Boxing Day."

"I left my aunt much better. She insisted that I come home for Christmas and I was nothing loath." His voice was thick and deep and had not a Northumbrian but a Scottish burr. And his manner of speech was stilted and formal as if he had rehearsed what he had to say.

"Is she alone?"

"No, she's got a friend with her, so I felt justified in leaving."

"Do sit down, Andrew." She pointed to a chair and then went and sat on the couch, and as Jane sat down again beside her she did not look at her but groped out and clasped he hand.

"Why can't you get your aunt to come and live nearer, Andrew?" Jane was leaning forward asking the question.

"Living such a long way off."

"She likes Devon."

"You know what. Mammy?" Jane's legs were tucked under her on the couch now, and her face took on a mischievous twist as she said, "I bet it isn't any aunt that Andrew goes to see. I'd like to bet it's a girl friend ... what do you say?"

The sound of Stephen dropping the hammer on the floor, whether intentionally or unintentionally, brought all their eyes to him. He was looking at Jane, but Jane, having no fear of her brother, ignored his look and repeated, "What do you say. Mammy?"

"I would say it is Andrew's own business." Grace was looking at Andrew and he at her, then, moving his deep gaze on to Jane, he said softly,

"I came back because my girl lives here."

Jane threw back her head and let out a gurgle of a laugh. Ever since she was eight and had proposed to him openly one day, saying, "When I grow up will you marry me, Andrew?" and had realised that he was in some way shocked, she had taken a delight in calling him her lad.

"Jane has a friend coming tomorrow, Andrew," Grace was smiling at her daughter.

"Yes?" Andrew's eyebrows moved up enquiringly.

"He's a special friend, Andrew."

"Yes?" He looked at Jane and she exclaimed with a deep nod,

"Uh-huh."

A piercing scream coming from the hall checked the monosyllabic exchange, and Grace screwed up her face against the sound as it was repeated again and again. There came now cries of "Goodbye, goodbye.

Thank you, goodbye. Merry Christmas ... same to you. Goodbye,"

followed by the front door banging, then into the drawing-room was borne Yvonne, kicking and struggling in her father's grasp, and yelling at the limit of her lungs, "Want to. Want to. Down, Daddy. Want to."

Gerald, stalking to the hearth, dropped the child none too gently on to the rug by the fire, and immediately his hands released her she stopped her screeching.

Yvonne looked round the company there was hardly a tear stain on her face then suddenly she laughed and, turning over on the rug lay on her stomach and kicked her toes into the soft pile.

"Something's got to be done in that quarter," Beatrice nodded downwards.

"She's becoming a perfect little devil."

"If you want to have harmony have a child in the house. What do you say?" Gerald addressed Andrew in a condescending, man-to-man style, and Andrew, getting to his feet, answered quietly, "That's one thing I can't give my opinion on."

"No, no, of course not. Well, you don't know what you've missed."

Grace too rose to her feet and, looking at Andrew, she said quietly,

"You'll be on your own tomorrow, Andrew?" And without waiting for an answer she continued, "Will you come and have dinner with us?"

Andrew was looking at the woman before him. Then his gaze moved from her to the members of her family, to Beatrice, the son-in-law, Jane and, lastly, Stephen. They were all staring at him, waiting he knew for his answer. He looked back at Grace again and it was a moment before he spoke.

"Thanks, I'd like that," he said briefly.

"Good night now." The good night was for her. Then, giving a nod that included the rest of them, he said again, "Good night." As he went towards the door he paused for a moment and, turning and looking back towards Grace, he said, "A Happy Christmas to you."

"And to you, Andrew."

Their voices were low and level.

No-one saw him out, and when the door had closed on him the silence still held, giving him time to cross the hall.

Beatrice was the first to speak.

"But, Mammy," she said, 'there'll be company, Jane's friend . She paused to cast a glance towards Jane.

"George."

"George will be all the better for meeting Andrew, Beatrice."

"But Andrew will be awkward. Mammy; he'll be out of place, it's never happened before."

"Andrew won't be out of place, Beatrice ... I knew Andrew before I knew any of you." Grace nicked her gaze quickly around them.

"I've never known him to be awkward in any company. Andrew is one of the family;

I've always considered him so. "

And now she looked towards Stephen and she saw that his face was working. At this moment he was without his facade, and when she said,

"Well, Stephen, what have you to say about it?" she watched him wet his lips and wait a moment before speaking, and she knew he was going to great lengths to control his temper.

"Well, since you ask, and since you appear to be so much better, I feel that I should speak frankly." He paused and she inclined her head towards him.

"It wouldn't have happened if Father had been alive, would it? And I can't see that the excuse is that he's alone tomorrow.