In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads

On Christmas Eve, Mary and Susan Jenks brought up to Roger a little
tree. It was just a fir plume, but it was gay with tinsel and spicy
with the fragrance of the woods, and it was topped by a wee wax angel.

In vain Mary and Barry and even Aunt Isabelle had urged Roger to join
their merrymaking downstairs. Aunt Frances, having delayed her trip
abroad until January, was coming; and except for Leila and General Dick
and Porter Bigelow, it was to be strictly a family affair.

But Roger had refused. "I'm not one of you," he had told Mary. "I'm a
bee, not a butterfly, and I shouldn't have joined you on Thanksgiving
night. When you're alone, if I may, I'll come down--but please--not
with your guests."

He had not joined them often, however, and he had never again shown the
mood which had possessed him when his voice had charmed them. Hence
they grew, as the days went on, to know him as quiet, self-contained
man, whose eyes burned now and then, when some subject was broached
which moved him, but who, for the most part, showed at least an outward
serenity.

They grew to like him, too, and to depend upon him. Even Aunt Isabelle
went to him for advice. He had such an attentive manner, and when he
spoke, he gave his opinion with an air of comforting authority.