“Perhaps this is the way the _bon Dieu_ has of expressing his disapproval of us,” said Judith. “Why should he disapprove?” I asked. A shrug of her shoulders ended in a shiver. “I am chilled through.” “My dear girl,” I cried, “why on earth haven’t you lit the fire?” “The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy.” “But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman,” I exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box. I struck a match. To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair. She stretched out her hand--she has delicate white hands with slender fingers--and lightly touched my head. “How long have we known each other?” she asked. “About eight years.” “And how long shall we go on?” “As long as you like,” said I, intent on the fire. Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the merry blaze and crackle of the wood assured me of successful effort. “These are capital grates,” I said, cheerfully, drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the front of the fire. “Excellent,” she replied, in a tone devoid of interest. There was a long silence. To me this is one of the great charms of human intercourse. Is there not a legend that Tennyson and Carlyle spent the most enjoyable evenings of their lives enveloped in impenetrable silence and tobacco-smoke, one on each side of the hob? A sort of Whistlerian nocturne of golden fog! I offered Judith a cigarette. She declined it with a shake of the head. I lit one myself and leaning back contentedly in my chair watched her face in half-profile. Most people would call her plain. I can’t make up my mind on the point. She is what is termed a negative blonde--that is to say, one with very fair hair (in marvellous abundance--it is one of her beauties), a sallow complexion and deep violet eyes. Her face is thin, a little worn, that of the woman who has suffered--temperament again! Her mouth, now, as she looks into the new noisy flames, is drawn down at the corners. Her figure is slight but graceful. She has pretty feet. One protruded from her skirt, and a slipper dangled from the tip. At last it fell off. I knew it would. She has a craze for the minimum of material in slippers--about an inch of leather (I suppose it’s leather) from the toe. I picked the vain thing up and balanced it again on her stocking-foot. “Will you do that eight years hence?” said Judith. “My dear, as I’ve done it eight thousand times the last eight years, I suppose I shall,” I replied, laughing. “I’m a creature of habit.” “You may marry, Marcus.” “God forbid!” I ejaculated. “Some pretty fresh girl.” “I abominate pretty fresh girls. I would just as soon talk to a baby in a perambulator.” “The women men are crazy to marry are not always those they particularly delight to converse with, my friend,” said Judith.