On Christmas morning the thought occurred to Lee that he had heard nothing more from Imogene of the plan for him to spend the day at the McDonnells', which she had mentioned the night of their talk.

Rather strangely, too, he had not received from either of the girls even a note of holiday greeting; to Imogene he had had sent from Denver an edition of Ibsen's plays, and to Ruth a splendid set of furs, both in care of Mrs.McDonnell, who had promised they should be delivered when Santa Claus came down the chimney.

Odd, the girls' silence.
He was at work on his accounts at the moment, but now he remained biting the end of his pen-holder and staring through the window.

From somewhere in the sagebrush came the sound of shots: Dave potting tin cans with the .22 rifle that had been Lee's gift to him.

In the room was only the snapping of the fire.