The flat had belonged to an artist who was at the war.  It was but a pocket dwelling on the third floor.  The two windows of the little square sitting-room looked out on some trees and a church.  But Leila, who hated dining by daylight, had soon drawn curtains of a deep blue over them.  The picture which Fort remembered was this:  A little four-square table of dark wood, with a Chinese mat of vivid blue in the centre, whereon stood a silver lustre bowl of clove carnations; some greenish glasses with hock cup in them; on his left, Leila in a low lilac frock, her neck and shoulders very white, her face a little powdered, her eyes large, her lips smiling; opposite him a black-clothed padre with a little gold cross, over whose thin darkish face, with its grave pointed beard, passed little gentle smiles, but whose deep sunk grey eyes were burnt and bright; on his right, a girl in a high grey frock, almost white, just hollowed at the neck, with full sleeves to the elbow, so that her slim arms escaped; her short fair hair a little tumbled; her big grey eyes grave; her full lips shaping with a strange daintiness round every word—­and they not many; brilliant red shades over golden lights dotting the black walls; a blue divan; a little black piano flush with the wall; a dark polished floor; four Japanese prints; a white ceiling.  He was conscious that his own khaki spoiled something as curious and rare as some old Chinese tea-chest.  He even remembered what they ate; lobster; cold pigeon pie; asparagus; St. Ivel cheese; raspberries and cream.  He did not remember half so well what they talked of, except that he himself told them stories of the Boer War, in which he had served in the Yeomanry, and while he was telling them, the girl, like a child listening to a fairy-tale, never moved her eyes from his face.  He remembered that after supper they all smoked cigarettes, even the tall child, after the padre had said to her mildly, “My dear!” and she had answered:  “I simply must, Daddy, just one.”  He remembered Leila brewing Turkish coffee—­very good, and how beautiful her white arms looked, hovering about the cups.  He remembered her making the padre sit down at the piano, and play to them.  And she and the girl on the divan together, side by side, a strange contrast; with just as strange a likeness to each other.  He always remembered how fine and rare that music sounded in the little room, flooding him with a dreamy beatitude.  Then—­he remembered—­Leila sang, the padre standing-by; and the tall child on the divan bending forward over her knees, with her chin on her hands.  He remembered rather vividly how Leila turned her neck and looked up, now at the padre, now at himself; and, all through, the delightful sense of colour and warmth, a sort of glamour over all the evening; and the lingering pressure of Leila’s hand when he said good-bye and they went away, for they all went together.  He remembered talking a great deal to the padre in the cab, about the public school they had both been