"
The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. Mrs.
James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus.
Laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip. Nobody
appeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and sat
with his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head
bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all
observation. When the others spoke to him he answered
deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.
Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the
plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low sigh of relief.
It was almost over. Soon he would be able to escape and hide
himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men
and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which
their success gave them power and influence. He--he--only--was
a failure.
He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise. Mrs. James
merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous
expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures'
palates, and looked at Malcolm.
Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company;
everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except Robert. He
still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness.
"I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm, "because I
am supposed to possess the gift of gab.
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