It all went to show the trend of the world, however, in this callous
age of ours; it went to show that the right sort of missionary work
was not being performed. Mr. Bingle never forgave Geoffrey for calling
"The Christmas Carol" trash. In the light of what took place
afterwards, he felt that he was completely justified in an opinion
formed almost on the instant the abominable word was uttered.
Christmas fell on a Wednesday. Three days out of each year Mr. Bingle
slept late of a morning: Christmas, Easter Sunday and Labour Day. On
this particular Christmas morning he slept much later than usual; the
little clock in the parlour was striking eight when he awoke and
scrambled out of bed.
Mrs. Bingle always had her coffee in bed. She adhered strictly to that
pleasant custom for the somewhat pathetic reason that it afforded a
distinct exemplification of the superiority of mistress over maid. By
no manner of means could Melissa have arrived at this expression of
luxury.
"Merry Christmas," said Mr. Bingle, crimping his toes on the cold
carpet and bending over to kiss his companion's cheek.
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