charcoal near the door. She nodded to him as she moved down the long
line of cars to her own.

There it stood, the light of the brazier falling faintly upon it, the
two points of the windscreen standing up like the ready ears of an
interested dog, the beautiful lines of its body, long bonnet and
mudguards stretched like a greyhound at a gallop, at rest until the
dawn. She flung the bag of chains inside, and, patting the bonnet,
slipped away and out into the street without attempting to try the fit
of the chains upon the wheels.

She slept a last night in the dark red German room three streets
away--first making a little tour of the walls in her nightgown, the
candle flame waving from her hand, the hot wax running in a cascade over
her fingers--and looked at the stag's horn fastened to the bracket and
the cluster of Christmas postcards pinned to the wall.

The postcards arrested her attention, and a light darted in her mind.
They were dark postcards, encrusted with shiny frosting, like the snow
outside. Little birds and goblins, a wreath of holly, and a house with
red mica windows were designed on them. She put out a finger and gently
touched the rough, bright, common stuff; standing opposite them, almost
breathless with a wave of memory. She could see herself no taller than
the nursery fireguard, with round eyes to which every bright thing was a
desire. She could feel herself very small amid the bustle and clatter of
Christmas, blowing dark breath marks against the bright silver on the
table, pulling the fringe round the iced cake, wetting her finger and
picking up "hundreds and thousands" with it from a bag.

These postcards now in front of her were made by some one with the mind