When our guests were gone Pelleas and I sat for some while beside the
drawing-room fire. They had brought us a box of Christmas roses and
these made sweet the room as if with a secret Spring--a Little Spring,
such as comes to us all, now and then, through the year. And it was the
enchanted hour, when Christmas eve has just passed and no one is yet
awakened by the universal note of Get-Your-Stocking-Before-Breakfast.
“For that matter,” Pelleas said, “every day is a loving cup, only some
of us see only one of its handles: Our own.”