could see Rankin sitting on it.

Rankin laughed, for he was not wholly dead to the humour of his own
celebrity; but there was a faint silken rustle at the head of the
table, subtle and hostile, like the stirring of a snake. Mrs. Herbert
Rankin bent her fine flat brows towards the poet, with a look ominous
and intent. The look was lost upon Rickman and he wondered why Maddox
pressed his foot.

"Have you written anything on the war, Mr. Rickman?" she asked.

"No; I haven't written anything on the war."

She looked at him almost contemptuously as at a fool who had neglected
an opportunity.

"What do you generally write on, then?"

Rickman looked up with a piteous smile. He was beginning to feel very
miserable and weary, and he longed to get up and go. It seemed to him
that there was no end to that dinner; no end to the pitiless ingenuity
of Rankin's _chef_. And he always had hated being stared at.

"I don't--generally--write--on anything," he said.

"Your last poem is an exception to your rule, then?"

"It is. I wrote most of _that_ on gin and water," said Rickman
desperately.

Rankin had tugged all the geniality out of his moustache, and his face
was full of anxiety and gloom. Maddox tried hard not to snigger. He
was not fond of Mrs. Herbert Rankin.

And Rankin's _chef_ continued to send forth his swift and fair
creations.

Rickman felt his forehead grow cold and damp. He leaned back and wiped
it with his handkerchief. A glance passed between Maddox and Rankin.
But old Mrs. Rankin looked at him and the motherhood stirred in her
heart.

"Won't you change places with me? I expect you're feeling that fire
too much at your back."

Maddox plucked his sleeve. "Better stay where you are," he whispered.

Rickman rose instantly to his feet. The horrible conviction was
growing on him that he was going to faint, to faint or to be
ignominiously ill. That came sometimes of starving, by some irony of
Nature.

"Don't Maddy--I think perhaps--"

Surely he was going to faint.

Maddox jumped up and held him as he staggered from the room.

Rankin looked at his wife and his wife looked at Rankin. "He may be a
very great poet," said she, "but I hope you'll never ask him to dine
here again."

"Never. I can promise you," said Rankin.

The mother had a kinder voice. "I think the poor fellow was feeling
ill from that fire."

"Well he might, too," said Rankin with all the bitterness that became
the husband of elegant