As he sat there, his thoughts flew over the bridge of years, and he
was wafted on the wings of memory to other and happier Yuletides.
That Christmas when he had received his first bicycle....
That Christmas abroad....
The merry house-party at the place of his Cambridge friend....
Yuletide at The Towers, where he had first met Alice!
Ah!
Ten hours passed rapidly thus...
. . . . . . .
[AUTHOR. I put dots to denote the flight of years. EDITOR. Besides,
it will give the reader time for a sandwich.]
Robert got up and shook himself.
[EDITOR. One moment. This is a Christmas story. When are you coming
to the robin?
AUTHOR. I really can't be bothered about robins just now. I assure
you all the best Christmas stories begin like this nowadays. We may
get to a robin later; I cannot say.
EDITOR. We must. My readers expect a robin, and they shall have it.
And a wassail-bowl, and a turkey, and a Christmas-tree, and a--
AUTHOR. Yes, yes; but wait. We shall come to little Elsie soon, and
then perhaps it will be all right.