was going to sit up, then.) She heard him go into the dining-room beyond and stumble against things; then came the spurt of a match, followed by the clinking of glasses. (He was only going to have a smoke and a drink.) She waited a little while longer, then she called to him.  There was no answer; he must be dozing on the couch in the dining-room.  A light wind lifted the carpet at the door, and she wondered drowsily whether Nevill had left the drawing-room window open.

He had done all that she supposed, and more.  First of all, he drank a little more than was good for him; this happened occasionally now.  Then he sat down and wrote what he thought was a very terse and biting letter to Stanistreet, in which he said:  “You needn’t call.  You will not find either of us at home at Ridgmount Gardens from May to August, nor at Thorneytoft from August to May.  And if you should happen to meet my wife anywhere in public, you will oblige me greatly by cutting her.”

This letter he left on the table outside for postage in the morning.  Then he went back to the dining-room and drank a great deal more than was good for him.  Of course he left the drawing-room window open and the lamp burning, and by midnight he was sleeping heavily in the adjoining room.  And the wind got up in the night:  it played with the muslin curtains, flinging them out like streamers into the room; played with the flimsy parasol lamp-shade until it tilted, and the little lamp was thrown on to the floor.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson woke with the light crash.  She sat up for a moment, then got out of bed, crossed the passage, and opened the drawing-room door.  A warm wind puffed in her face; the air was full of black flakes flying through a red rain; a stream of fire ran along the floor, crests of flames leapt and quivered over the steady blue under-current; and over there, in the corner, an absurd little arm-chair had caught fire all by itself; the flames had peeled off its satin covering like a skin, and were slowly consuming the horse-hair stuffing; the pitiable object sent out great puffs and clouds of smoke that writhed in agonized spirals.  The tiny room had become a battlefield of dissolute forces.  But as yet none of the solid furniture was touched; it was a superficial conflagration.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson saw nothing but the stream of fire that ran between her and the room where Nevill lay.  She picked up her skirt and waded through it barefoot.  A spark flung from the burning draperies settled on the wide flapping frills of her night-gown.  Nevill was fast asleep with the rug over him and his mouth open.  She shook him with one hand, and with the other she tried to beat down her flaming capes.  Was he never going to wake?

She was afraid to move; but by dropping forward on her knees she could just reach some soda-water on the table; she dashed it over his face.  The fire had hurt the soles of her feet; now it had caught her breast, her throat, her hair; it rose flaming round her head, and she cried aloud in her terror.  Still clutching Nevill’s sleeve, she staggered and fell across him, and he woke.