ipped these on. Jim
rocked through the crowd, in his tall hat, looking for the flautist.

At last Aaron was found--wearing a bowler hat. Julia groaned in spirit.
Josephine's brow knitted. Not that anybody cared, really. But as one
must frown at something, why not at the bowler hat? Acquaintances and
elegant young men in uniforms insisted on rushing up and bowing and
exchanging a few words, either with Josephine, or Jim, or Julia, or
Lilly. They were coldly received. The party veered out into the night.

The women hugged their wraps about them, and set off sharply, feeling
some repugnance for the wet pavements and the crowd. They had not far to
go--only to Jim's rooms in Adelphi. Jim was leading Aaron, holding
him by the arm and slightly pinching his muscles. It gave him
great satisfaction to have between his fingers the arm-muscles of a
working-man, one of the common people, the _fons et origo_ of modern
life. Jim was talking rather vaguely about Labour and Robert Smillie,
and Bolshevism. He was all for revolution and the triumph of labour.

So they arrived, mounted a dark stair, and entered a large, handsome
room, one of the Adams rooms. Jim had furnished it from Heale's with
striped hangings, green and white and yellow and dark purple, and with
a green-and-black checked carpet, and great stripe-covered chairs
and Chesterfield. A big gas-fire was soon glowing in the handsome old
fire-place, the panelled room seemed cosy.

While Jim was handing round drinks and sandwiches, and Josephine was
making tea, Robert played Bach on the piano--the pianola, rather. The
chairs and lounge were in a half-circle round the fire. The party threw
off their wraps and sank deep into this expensive comfort of modern
bohemia. They needed the Bach to take away the bad taste that _Aida_ had
left in their mouths. They needed the whiskey and curacao to rouse their
spirits. They needed the profound comfort in which to sink away from the
world. All the men, except Aaron, had been through the war in some
way or other. But here they were, in the old setting exactly, the old
bohemian routine.

The bell rang, Jim went downstairs. He returned shortly with a frail,
elegant woman--fashionable rather than bohemian. She was cream and
auburn, Irish, with a slightly-lifted upper lip that gave her a pathetic
look. She dropped her wrap and sat down by Julia, taking her hand
delicately.

"How are you, darling?" she asked.

"Yes--I'm happy," said Julia,