Ben held up his glass, prolonging anticipation. The fine vatted aroma of the rye cheered his nostrils. Here at least was one trifle which helps assuage the immense tedium of life. “Funny to see the old place again,” he said. “How well I remember those coloured panes. Well....” “Never drink without a sentiment,” said George. “All right: stained glass windows.” “Good enough. Stained glass windows.” “Is this your first visit?” Ben began politely; but the other guest was still coughing and gagging. His eyes were full of tears. Not used to good stuff, George thought. You don’t get much of this genuine rye nowadays. He and Ben waited, rather embarrassed, until the other had stopped patting his chest. Ben lit a cigarette and blew a ring. Martin’s face brightened. He put out his finger and hooked the floating twirl. “That’s lovely!” he said. “How do you do it?” Ben was pleased at this tribute to his only social accomplishment. “Why, it’s quite easy. Get a big mouthful of smoke, purse your lips in a circle, like the hole in a doughnut, and raise your tongue suddenly to push the smoke out.” “Do it again.” Ben looked so comic, shaping his mouth, Martin couldn’t help laughing. “You look like a catfish. Can _you_ do it too?” “Not so well as Ben. Gosh, didn’t you ever see any one blow smoke rings before?” “No. My father doesn’t smoke.” Ben looked a little perplexed. He had an uneasy feeling that perhaps the artist was making fun of them in some obscure way. Phyllis called from the stairs. “George, will you come up and speak to the children? They want to be reassured about the Picnic.” “Do I have to finish this medicine?” Martin asked. George grinned at him, rather tickled by this drollery. “You must do as you think best. Make yourselves at home, you fellows. I’ll be back in a minute.” “Don’t you like it?” said Ben. “No.” “Well, I can help you.” “It was nice of you to blow a smoke ring to amuse me.” There was silence, which Ben concluded by taking the other glass of whisky. “Happy days,” he said. “To-morrow will be a happy day,” Martin said. “We’re going to be reassured by a Picnic.” “Have a cigarette,” was all that Ben could think of. “Who were the ladies you brought with you?” “Well, one of them’s my wife.” “Which, the pretty one?” Ben poured himself another slug. He felt he needed it. He had a strong desire to laugh, but there was sincere inquiry in Mr. Martin’s eyes. He really wanted to know. “Ask _them_,” he said. Phyllis came into the room. “It’ll soon be dinner time. You people all ready?” Martin held out his arms. It was so nearly the substance of her dream, she moved forward to enter his embrace. Ben’s face of surprise checked her in time. She took Martin’s hands. “Mr. Martin is my guest of honour,” she explained lightly. “He seems to be,” said Ben, and finished his glass. They stood a moment. Then Martin said, “You didn’t look at them.” “At what?” “My hands. I mean, are they clean enough?”