When she got down-stairs she found Doctor Strike and the Jacksons in the living-room before the fireplace, where the sleepy coolie was laying a fresh fire. Mrs. Jackson wore one of Mr. Jackson's overcoats, Mr. Jackson was wrapped in a blanket, Doctor Strike was hanging his wet overcoat on a chair. His face was hollower under the eyes and quite white, but he did not suggest fatigue; on the contrary he seemed to restrain, as ever, a restless, burning vitality. "Good evening, Miss Davis," he said as she came in. "Or probably it is good morning." "Yes, it is three-thirty. No Miss Reed?" "Not yet," he answered. He sat down with them and began to rub his strong bony hands together. "Pretty cold," he said briskly. "I wonder if I could have some coffee. I have not eaten anything since noon." "I'll get you some," said Mrs. Jackson, "and you'd better have some sandwiches too." She went out and Megan sat waiting for Doctor Strike to tell them what had happened. The room had a strange look, seen in a startled awakening from sleep, as though what was most familiar in it was only a replica in a changed substance. She let her eyes linger on the plush carpet, the pictures of dogs in lace caps and toppers, the flannel collar sticking up from Mr. Jackson's blanket, the coolie making the fire, whose bristling head some disease had turned bald in patches, all of which assured her that she was awake in a world of things that remain permanent. "It is cold driving," said the Doctor, still rubbing his hands together. "Have you an open car?" asked Mr. Jackson. "Yes, all I could get. It was the only kind they would send with a Chinese license, and they were reluctant enough to give me that." "Then you got your permit, did you?"