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enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such 4wa as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great, intense mhi of pure red gn94wa fire. 94wa at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing 7812gn9wa a loose grey suit, and sprawling in the 94wa large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across 7812gn9wa which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin was sunk on his rest, so that his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glhi lithe and elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious 812gn94a curve returning upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. As a matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal. 94wa Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and 94wa bright in the French mode. She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the gn94wa mantel-piece, to escape the fire. 2gn94wa She wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves 4wa and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to. Jim Bricknell n94wa himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat 4wa in a chair in gn94wa front of the fire, n94wa some distance back, and stretched his long legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead 4wa was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, 94wa he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish. Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles. It was 2gn94wa evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for 812gn94a choice. He wanted to get fat â€" that was his idea. But he couldn’t bring it off: he was thin, though not too thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in 812gn94a a low chair between him and his father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like a witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out 94wa of n94wa the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young 812gn94a fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend. The only other person stood at the round table pouring out 2gn94wa red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband, Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to gn94wa be demobilised, when he gn94wa would become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist. The room was hotand subdued, everyone was silent. “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear â€"“anybody havea drink? Don’t you find it 7812gn9wa rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of 4wa beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes â€" I think there is,” said Robert. .