posed, and more. First of all, he drank a
little more than was good for him; this happened occasionally now. Then
he sat down and wrote what he thought was a very terse and biting letter
to Stanistreet, in which he said: "You needn't call. You will not find
either of us at home at Ridgmount Gardens from May to August, nor at
Thorneytoft from August to May. And if you should happen to meet my
wife anywhere in public, you will oblige me greatly by cutting her."

This letter he left on the table outside for postage in the morning. Then
he went back to the dining-room and drank a great deal more than was good
for him. Of course he left the drawing-room window open and the lamp
burning, and by midnight he was sleeping heavily in the adjoining room.
And the wind got up in the night: it played with the muslin curtains,
flinging them out like streamers into the room; played with the flimsy
parasol lamp-shade until it tilted, and the little lamp was thrown on to
the floor.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson woke with the light crash. She sat up for a moment,
then got out of bed, crossed the passage, and opened the drawing-room
door. A warm wind puffed in her face; the air was full of black flakes
flying through a red rain; a stream of fire ran along the floor, crests
of flames leapt and quivered over the steady blue under-current; and over
there, in the corner, an absurd little arm-chair had caught fire all by
itself; the flames had peeled off its satin covering like a skin, and
were slowly consuming the horse-hair stuffing; the pitiable object sent
out great puffs and clouds of smoke that writhed in agonized spirals. The
tiny room had become a battlefield of dissolute forces. But as yet none
of the solid furniture was touched; it was a superficial conflagration.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson saw nothing but the stream of fire that ran between her
and the room where Nevill lay. She picked up her skirt and waded through
it barefoot. A spark flung from the burning draperies settled on the wide
flapping frills of her night-gown. Nevill was fast asleep with the rug
over him and his mouth open. She shook him with one hand, and with the
other she tried to beat down her flaming capes. Was he never going to
wake?

She was afraid to move; but by dropping forward on her knees she could
just reach some soda-water on the table; she dashed it over his face. The
fire had hurt the soles of her feet; now it had caught her breast, her
throat, her hair; it rose flaming