Phoebe, as usual, was full of her plans for the annual Christmas pageant-a pantomime of Peter Pan. So enthusiastic was she, the crystal glassware was in imminent danger of being swept off the table by her effusive gestures.

Her face almost hidden by the enormous brim of her hat, which harbored a couple of robins among the ferns and ribbons, Phoebe spilled out a torrent of words. “We will have children flying across the stage”-she flung out an arm, nearly costing Baxter his sherry-“and pirates and a ship and-”

“How in blazes,” Baxter asked, rudely interrupting, “are you going to get a ship on the stage?”

Phoebe’s cheeks were red with excitement. “Your maintenance fellow, Clive, is building us one.”

That was news to Cecily, but she managed to meet Baxter’s glare with a serene nod. “Clive is so talented, and I’m sure it will be a marvelous addition to our Christmas celebrations.”

Baxter grunted. “How do you propose to get rid of the thing when the show is over?”

Phoebe looked somewhat deflated. “I suppose we will have to break it up and let the dustmen take it away.”

Seeing her husband’s scowl darken, Cecily hurried to intervene. “We’ll worry about that later. Think of it, Baxter, a real ship on our stage. We will be the talk of the town.”

At her words, Colonel Fortescue, whose nose had been buried in a brandy glass, suddenly came alive. “A ship, you say? Jolly good fun, what? What? I remember when-”

“Not that kind of ship, dear,” Phoebe said loudly, tapping her husband’s arm to get his attention. “We were talking about my pageant and-”

Ignoring her, he stabbed at his chest with his thumb. “Got one of these for helping to take over the palace during the Zanzibar skirmish. Blighters were firing on our Royal Navy in the harbor and-”