Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the
merry blaze and crackle of the wood assured me of successful
effort.

"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. 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.