There were two deep armchairs before the blaze; Miss Erith took one,
Vaux collapsed upon the other.

She was disturbingly pretty in her evening gown. There were
cigarettes on a little table at his elbow, and he lighted one at her
suggestion and puffed feebly.

"Which?" she inquired smilingly.

He understood: "Irish, please."

"Hot?"

"Thank you, yes,"

When the butler had brought it, the young man began to regret the
Racquet Club less violently.

"It's horribly cold out," he said. "There's scarcely a soul on the
streets."

She nodded brightly:

"It's a wonderful night for what we have to do. And I don't mind the
cold very much."

"Are you proposing to go OUT?" he asked, alarmed.

"Why, yes. You don't mind, do you?"