Nobody wanted to quarrel with Yule cake and muffins, and even Mr.Saxon temporarily forgot his worries and relapsed into quite amusing reminiscences of certain adventures in France.
If only our spirits would keep up to the point to which, with much effort, we screw them, all would be well: unfortunately they often have a tiresome knack of descending with a run.

When tea was finished and cleared away Mr.Saxon found the presence of his family a hindrance to reading, and at a hint from their mother the younger members of the party took themselves off into the little drawing-room.

Here, round a black fire, which, despite Hereward's poking, refused to burn brightly, the grumble-cloud that had been lowering all day burst at last.
"If we'd only got the Rotherwood billiard table there'd be something to do!" groused Egbert gloomily.
"There isn't a corner in this poky hole where a fellow can fiddle with photography," chimed in Athelstane, "even if there was time to do it.
When I get back from Birkshaw it's nothing but grind, grind, grind at medical books all the evening." "Rather have your job than mine, though," said Egbert.

"You haven't to sit under the Pater's eye all day long, and have him down on you like a cartload of bricks if you make the slightest slip.

I'm the worst off of the whole lot of us!" "What about me at that odious Grammar School ?" asked Hereward, pressing his claims to the palm of dissatisfaction.
"Or me at the hostel!" urged Ingred, not to be outdone.
"I don't think you, any of you, realize how slow it is just to stop at home!" sighed Quenrede.