"I shan't go to bed, dear, unless you go to the club." "Very well, Lou. It seems the right thing to do, doesn't it? You go to bed, and I'll go to the club for an hour. As you say, it's no use sitting staring into the fire." Her room gave on one side of the sitting room, and her father's on the other. She waited until Colonel Harris went away, having helped him on with his overcoat. After he left she felt a little twinge of remorse. The night was cold and raw and he really had not wanted to go out. He would have been quite willing to sit in front of the fire, smoking and reading. He had only gone because his own innate kindliness and tact had suggested to him that Louisa wished to remain alone. He too, like Edie, felt a little in the way. His daughter's grief was of a nature that a father's love cannot soothe. The greatest solace for it now would be solitude. So, in spite of the fog, in spite of the unpleasantness that met Colonel Harris on every page of every newspaper, he sallied out of the hotel and got into a hansom, with the avowed intention of spending a couple of hours at his club. Louisa left alone in the sitting room, in front of the cheery fire, sat down for a moment on the sofa and rested her head against the cushions. There was memory even in that, for when she closed her eyes, she could imagine that Luke was sitting at the foot of the sofa; she could see him almost, with his eyes turned ever toward her, and that quaint gesture of his when he passed his hand over the back of his neatly groomed head. The memory was intolerable now. She rose--restless and feverish--and stood by the fire, one hand on the high mantel-shelf, her forehead resting against that hand, one foot on the fender, and her aching eyes gazing into the red hot glow. It was one of those big red fires, partly made up of coke and partly of coal, wherein only here and there tiny blue flames flit waywardly, and in the building up of which hotel servants are usually past masters. The glowing coal heaped up high in the old-fashioned grate presented a wonderful picture of mysterious architecture: streets and lanes of crimson incandescence, palaces and towers of molten heat, and the little blue flames dancing and peeping out from the fiery depths, mocking and wayward, twirling and twisting as with the joy of life. Louisa gazed into this city of brilliant crimson and gold, the streets, the palaces, and the towers. And as she gazed--with eyes almost seared--these same streets of fire assumed different shapes; they became stately and wide, with rows of trees forming an avenue along the middle, and tall houses on either side. One or two people were walking along the pavement, but quickly, as if they had business to transact and did not care to loiter. One figure, that of a woman, in neat ulster and serviceable hat--was walking briskly between the row of trees.