sound, the aggressive, wrath-inducing
breathing of one who sleeps in heavy after-dinner slumber. The sound
came from a room just at his elbow; the card on the door bore the
announcement "Mrs. Thundleford." The door was just slightly ajar; Rex
pushed it open an inch or two more and looked in. The august Teresa had
fallen asleep over an illustrated guide to Florentine art-galleries; at
her side, somewhat dangerously near the edge of the table, was a reading-
lamp. If Fate had been decently kind to him, thought Rex, bitterly, that
lamp would have been knocked over by the sleeper and would have given
them something to think of besides billiard matches.

There are occasions when one must take one's Fate in one's hands. Rex
took the lamp in his.

"Two hundred and thirty-seven, one hundred and fifteen." Strinnit was at
the table, and the balls lay in good position for him; he had a choice of
two fairly easy shots, a choice which he was never to decide. A sudden
hurricane of shrieks and a rush of stumbling feet sent every one flocking
to the door. The Dillot boy crashed into the room, carrying in his arms
the vociferous and somewhat dishevelled Teresa Thundleford; her clothing
was certainly not a mass of flames, as the more excitable members of the
party afterwards declared, but the edge of her skirt and part of the
table-cover in which she had been hastily wrapped were alight in a
flickering, half-hearted manner. Rex flung his struggling burden on the
billiard table, and for one breathless minute the work of beating out the
sparks with rugs and cushions and playing on them with soda-water syphons
engrossed the energies of the entire company.

"It was lucky I was passing when it happened," panted Rex; "some one had
better see to the room, I think the carpet is alight."

As a matter of fact the promptitude and energy of the rescuer had
prevented any great damage being done, either to the victim or her
surroundings. The billiard table had suffered most, and had to be laid
up for repairs; perhaps it was not the best place to have chosen for the
scene of salvage operations; but then, as Clovis remarked, when one is
rushing about with a blazing woman in one's arms one can't stop to think
out exactly where one is going to put her.

THEBULL

Tom Yorkfield had always regarded his half-brother, Laurence, with a lazy
instinct of dislike, toned down, as years went on, to a tolerant feeling
of indifference. There