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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 6by as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great, intense mhi of pure red zi46by fire. 46by at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing r8hvzi4by a loose grey suit, and sprawling in the 46by large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across r8hvzi4by 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 8hvzi46y 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. 46by Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and 46by 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 zi46by mantel-piece, to escape the fire. vzi46by She wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves 6by and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to. Jim Bricknell i46by himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat 6by in a chair in zi46by front of the fire, i46by some distance back, and stretched his long legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead 6by was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, 46by 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 vzi46by evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for 8hvzi46y 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 8hvzi46y 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 46by of i46by 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 8hvzi46y fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend. The only other person stood at the round table pouring out vzi46by red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband, Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to zi46by be demobilised, when he zi46by 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 r8hvzi4by rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of 6by beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes â€" I think there is,” said Robert. .