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. Her figure is slight but graceful. She has pretty
feet. One protruded from her skirt, and a slipper dangled from the tip.
At last it fell off. I knew it would. She has a craze for the minimum of
material in slippers--about an inch of leather (I suppose it's leather)
from the toe. I picked the vain thing up and balanced it again on her
stocking-foot.

"Will you do that eight years hence?" said Judith.

"My dear, as I've done it eight thousand times the last eight years, I
suppose I shall," I replied, laughing. "I'm a creature of habit."

"You may marry, Marcus."

"God forbid!" I ejaculated.

"Some pretty fresh girl."

"I abominate pretty fresh girls. I would just as soon talk to a baby in
a perambulator."

"The women men are crazy to marry are not always those they particularly
delight to converse with, my friend," said Judith.

I lit another cigarette. "I think the sex feminine has marriage on the
brain," I exclaimed, somewhat heatedly. "My Aunt Jessica was worrying me
about it the day before yesterday. As if it were any concern of hers!"

Judith laughed below her breath and called me a simpleton.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you haven't got a temperament."

This was a foolish answer, having no bearing on the question. I told
her so. She replied that she was years older than I, and had learned
the eternal relevance of all things. I pointed out that she was years
younger.

"How many heart-beats have you had in your life--real, wild, pulsating
heart-beats--eternity in an hour?"

"That's Blake," I murmured.

"I'm aware of it. Answer my question."

"It's a silly question."

"It isn't. The next time you see a female baby in a perambulator, take
off your hat respectfully."

I am afraid I am clumsy at repartee.

"And the next time you engage a cook, my dear J