Outside, the rain was still falling as they left the Restaurant Suisse and tramped to a music-hall. Here their entrance was unfortunately timed. Some good turns appeared earlier in the programme, some good turns figured lower down; but during the half-hour that they remained the monotony of the material that the average music-hall "comedian" regards as humorous struck Kent more forcibly than ever. Wives eloped with the lodgers, or husbands beat their wives and got drunk with "the boys." There seemed nothing else--nothing but conjugal infelicity; it was rang-tang-tang on the one vulgar, discordant note. "I've had enough of this," he said; "let's go. What time is it?" "Time for a quiet pipe at home, and then to turn in early. Let's cab it!" They were glad to take off their wet boots and to find themselves back in their own shabby chairs. But Cornelia had let the fire out, and the dismantled room was chilly. Turquand produced the whisky and the glasses, and, blowing a cloud, they drew up to the cold hearth, remarking that the weather had "turned muggy" and that a fire would have been out of place on such a night. "It looks bare without my things, doesn't it?" observed Kent. "One wouldn't have believed they made so much difference." "Yes," assented Turquand. "You'll have to get some books for that shelf over there, you know--it's awful empty." Turquand shivered, and said that he should. "You aren't cold?" "Cold? Not a bit--no. You were saying---?" "I don't know, I wasn't saying anything particular. I'll write you from Mentone, old fellow--not at once, but you shall have a line." "Thanks," answered Turquand; "be glad to hear from you." "Not that there'll be anything to say." "No, of course not. Still, you may just as well twaddle, if you will." There was a pause, while the pair smoked slowly, each busy with his thoughts, and considering if anything of what he felt could be said without its sounding sentimental. Both were remembering that they would never be sitting at home together in the room again, and though it had many faults, it assumed to the one who was leaving it a "tender grace" now. He had written his novel at that table; his first review had come to him here. Associations crept out and trailed across the floor; he felt that this room must always contain an integral portion of his life. And Turquand would miss him. "Be dull for you to-morrow evening, rather, I'm afraid, won't it?" he said in a burst. "Oh, I was alone while you were at Dieppe, you know. I shall jog along all right.... You've bought a desk for yourself, haven't you?" "Yes. Swagger, eh?" "You won't 'know where yer are'.... What's that--do you feel a draught?" "No--I--well, perhaps there is a draught now you mention it. Yes, I shall work in style when we come back. Strange feeling, going to be married, Turk!"