They hadn't money for a proper tree, that first year; one university lecturer's salary didn't go very far in London. But Violet had a box of her grandmother's ornaments, and they made do with a big fallen pine branch Arthur had spirited out of the park one icy evening. It had been a splendid prank, and the recollection made him glow as he hung spun-glass icicles and tiny wooden horses from still-fragrant needles of the pilfered branch, now propped in a corner of their tiny flat. Violet would be home soon. It was their first year, and everything was perfect.