Carew, with the easy adaptability which marked him, was the central
figure of one of the groups where he acted as a species of
toastmaster, to direct the trend of the stories and lead the
singing. Weldon sat slightly apart, watching the firelit group
before him, while his mind trailed lazily to and fro, from home,
with its holly wreaths in the windows, to Cape Town where the
flower-boxes edging a wide veranda would be a mass of geranium
blossoms now, and where, in the shady western end, would sit a tall
girl with hair the color of the yellow flame. Strangely enough, to
his honest, straightforward mind it never occurred to doubt that she
was thinking of him, sending a Christmas wish in his direction. More
than once she had given proof of her liking for him, her interest in
his concerns. Her blue eyes had met his eyes steadily, kindly.
Weldon had certain old-fashioned notions of womanhood which not all
of his social life had been able to beat out of him. Far back in his
boyhood, his mother, still a social leader at home, had told him it
was unmanly to flirt. A good and loyal woman would have no share in
flirtation; women of the other sort could have no share in his life.
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