"I'm not asking," Marc said slowly, "I'm instructing you to."
"Hah!" Julie snorted to some invisible spectator. "Listen to him!" She eyed him nastily. "Ask me to shinny up the doorsill and do a swan dive into my cocktail. I'll do that sooner."
Marc met her gaze for a moment and momentarily declined the challenge. "I suppose you just want to sit here and never know what hit you?"
"Exactly," Julie said. "For heaven's sake what does it matter what hits us after we're dead? At least I don't want to sit here chewing my nails while some morbid-minded deficient drives me into a state of complete nervous collapse."
Marc disengaged himself from his chair. She had a point there, though he'd rot before he admitted it. With considerable unconcern he moseyed across the room and glanced out the window. Then he stopped and leaned closer to the pane. Across the street the world was already ablaze. The night sky glowed red with flame.
"My God!" he cried. "The Fredericks are on fire!"
Julie moved to his side and stared out the window.
"Who are those people?" she asked. "The ones sitting on the lawn there?"
Marc directed his gaze to the right. He should have seen them sooner, except that one's sense of logic, when one is witnessing a fire, does not readily encompass a group of people lounging on blankets in the glowing radiance—especially when those people are concerned more with food, drink and cards than with the fire—and more especially when the owners of the flaming dwelling are prominent among those present....
"Aren't those the Fredericks?" Julie asked.