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lieving young—haven’t they?—Are you cold, Hester?’ she went forward and joined her daughter-in-law at the fireplace.

‘I haven’t enough clothes on,’ said Hester, still leaning her hands on the mantelshelf above her head and still looking down at the flames. ‘That is the bother of these smart dresses;—one can wear only one layer under them and that a thin one. I do feel a little chilly. Thanks, Clive.—Yes; I will put it on.’

Clive had returned with the folds of a coral shawl dripping from his arm and as he put it round her he said: ‘You haven’t caught cold, have you?’

‘Not in the least. It’s only this silly dress of yours,’ said Hester, holding the shawl against her breast as she moved to a table, took a cigarette and leant to light it at the lamp chimney, her small, illumined face cold and concentrated.

‘You have only time for three whiffs,’ said Monica. ‘Dinner will be ready in half a minute.’ And Clive said, smiling at his wife: ‘Hester is horribly wasteful of her cigarettes; it’s her only extravagance.’

Monica had always loved to look at her son across the dinner-table, their own little table for four in the Chelsea flat, when he had been the most