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"These are capital grates," I said, cheerfully, drawing a
comfortable arm-chair to the front of the fire.
"Excellent," she replied, in a tone devoid of interest.
There was a long silence. To me this is one of the great charms
of human intercourse. Is there not a legend that Tennyson and
Carlyle spent the most enjoyable evenings of their lives
enveloped in impenetrable silence and tobacco-smoke, one on each
side of the hob? A sort of Whistlerian nocturne of golden fog!
I offered Judith a cigarette. She declined it with a shake of
the head. I lit one myself and leaning back contentedly in my
chair watched her face in half-profile. Most people would call
her plain. I can't make up my mind on the point. She is what is
termed a negative blonde--that is to say, one with very fair hair
(in marvellous abundance--it is one of her beauties), a sallow
complexion and deep violet eyes. Her face is thin, a little
worn, that of the woman who has suffered--temperament again! Her
mouth, now, as she looks into the new noisy flames, is drawn down
at the corners.


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