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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 gxa as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great, intense mhi of pure red 923gxa fire. 3gxa at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing ipn1923xa a loose grey suit, and sprawling in the 3gxa large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across ipn1923xa 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 pn1923ga 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. 3gxa Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and 3gxa 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 923gxa mantel-piece, to escape the fire. 1923gxa She wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves gxa and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to. Jim Bricknell 23gxa himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat gxa in a chair in 923gxa front of the fire, 23gxa some distance back, and stretched his long legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead gxa was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, 3gxa 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 1923gxa evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for pn1923ga 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 pn1923ga 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 3gxa of 23gxa 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 pn1923ga fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend. The only other person stood at the round table pouring out 1923gxa red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband, Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to 923gxa be demobilised, when he 923gxa 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 ipn1923xa rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of gxa beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes â€" I think there is,” said Robert. .