"Coffee?"
"No, thanks, really—I've only just had some."
"Well," said George, "there's only whisky to offer you."
"Later on, perhaps, thanks, old man. Not just now. I've had a brandy. Never mix grape and grain."
"Wise man," said George, his brow clearing, since as a matter of fact, there was no whisky nearer than the public-house, and acceptance would have meant six-and-six, at least, besides the exertion of fetching it.
Sheila Fentiman drew an arm-chair forward, and herself sat down on a low pouffe. She was a woman of thirty-five or so, and would have been very good-looking but for an appearance of worry and ill-health that made her look older than her age.
"It's a miserable fire," said George, gloomily, "is this all the coal there is?"
"I'm sorry," said Sheila, "she didn't fill it up properly this morning."
"Well, why can't you see that she does? It's always happening. If the scuttle isn't absolutely empty she seems to think she needn't bother about filling it up."
"I'll get some."