e cold
raw night.

* * * * *

"Nothing in the world like winter air to make you feel fit," Bob said to
himself as he swung himself along the road at a tremendous pace.

"Jove, what a sunset!" he added, looking up at the red gold ruffles
slowly untightening. He reflected that there is nothing in the world
like health. Live cleanly and the high thinking will look after
itself--or at least won't matter. Physical condition, there's nothing
like it. Love and that sort of thing all very well in its way, but a
cold bath in the morning and plenty of exercise.... He began to whistle,
and then--because he did feel most frightfully well--to run.

"Run a mile without being out of breath," he thought complacently, and
then--because he hadn't meant to--("wasn't even thinking of her," he
grumbled to Providence)--he found himself outside her door. And in the
road there was a motor, a little coral coloured motor. He looked at it
in dismay and then he looked at the house. He saw it was lit up and he
imagined the room he knew so well. The crimson damask curtains and the
creamy walls, the glowing fire and the red roses, the roses he had sent
for her. Probably she would be sitting on that white fur rug on the
floor, her arms clasped round her knees, her red hair as bright as the
red hot coals, her dark eyes dreamy and half closed.

"Damn him, I wonder who he is," and he started examining the motor.

"It's not very new," he thought, "the varnish is all off and those shiny
leather seats are damned cold and slippery, draughty too, I should say;
hood doesn't close properly. Must let in the rain like a leaking boat."

He put his hand on the mud guard. "Bent," he said. He felt a little
cheered. But then, looking at the glowing house, he grew disconsolate
again.

"Wonder what they're doing," he grumbled to himself. "Jabbering away,
I'll be bound. Never was much of a hand at talking myself. Wonder who
the deuce he is."

And then he looked contemptuously at the little motor.

"Damned if I couldn't do her better than that," he said. "God, how cold
it is."

Irresolutely he moved away. Then he began to run, but the raw air
caught his throat and he felt out of breath.

"Not as young as I was," he thought as he walked away into the damp
night.

VII

THE MASTERPIECE

[_To HAROLD CHILD_]

He sat in front of his writing-table with a blank sheet of paper in
front of him--a creamy, virginal sheet, i