He had done all that she supposed, 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 round her head, and she cried aloud in

her terror. Still clutching Nevill's sleeve, she staggered and fell

across him, and he woke.




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