Mist enwrapped Restington-on-Sea; not very thick, but exceedingly clammy. It decked the autumn trees in weirdness, cobwebbed the tamarisks, and compelled Henry Ivor to shut his window, excluding the faint hiss and rustle from the beach. He seldom wrote after tea without the accompaniment of fresh air, and was drowsing over his pen when his housekeeper entered. “A couple to see you, sir; they came once before, when you was away.” Ivor blinked. “Well, show them in.” When the door was again opened a scent of whisky came in first, then a man, a woman, and a dog. Ivor laid down his pen, and rose; he had never seen any of them before, and immediately doubted whether he wanted to see any of them again. Never able, however, to be disagreeable at a moment’s notice, he waited defensively. The man, who might have been thirty-five, pale, warped, and thin, seemed to extract his face from the grip of nerves. “Hearing you were down here, sir, and being in the printing trade, if you understand my meaning----” Ivor nodded; he did not want to nod, but it seemed unavoidable; and he looked at the woman. Her face was buttoned, the most expressionless he had ever seen. “Well?” he said. The man’s lips, thin and down at one corner, writhed again. “You being a well-known writer,” he said, and the scent of whisky deepened. Ivor thought: ‘It wants courage to beg; it’s damp too. Perhaps he’s only primed himself.’ “Well?” he said again. “If you understand me,” said the man, “I’m in a very delicate position. I expect you know Mr. Gloy--Charles Gloy--editor of _Cribbage_----” “No,” said Ivor. “But will you sit down?” And he placed two chairs. The man and the woman sat down on their edges, the dog, too, sat on its edge! Ivor regarded it--a Schipperke--thinking: ‘Did they bring their dog to undermine me?’ As to that, it was the only kind of dog he did not like, but it looked damp and woeful. “My brother works for Mr. Gloy,” said the man; “so, being at Beachhampton--out of a job, if you understand my meaning--I brought my wife--you being a well-known philanthropist----” Ivor nervously took out a cigarette, and nervously put it back. “I don’t know what I can do for you,” he murmured. “I’m one to speak the truth,” resumed the man, “if you follow me----” And Ivor did--he followed on and on behind a wandering tale of printing, the war, ill-health. At last he said in despair: “I really can’t recommend people I know nothing about. What exactly do you want me to do?” The woman’s face seemed suddenly to lose a button, as if she were going to cry, but just then the dog whimpered; she took it up on her lap. Ivor thought: ‘How much have I got on me?’ “The fact is, Mr. Ivor,” said the man, “I’m broke to the world, if you understand my meaning. If once I could get back to London----” “What do you say, madam?” The woman’s mouth quivered and mumbled; Ivor stopped her with his hand.