"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting to
the stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation.
The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:
"Well, thank you, sir."
He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should
finish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the
shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and
sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel
by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from
his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he
had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from
Robert Browning, for he feared they would be above the heads of
his hearers. Some quotation that they would recognise from
Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The indelicate
clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their soles
reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He
would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them
which they could not understand. They would think that he was
airing his superior education. He would fail with them just as he
had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong
tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter
failure.
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