"Warrington, V.C.," he said, and tried to cheer. But the others did it for him.
(2) At Home.
An afternoon in early November: a cosy room, bright fire, big armchairs, piano, pipes, photographs, and decanters: a male figure extended to enormous length in one armchair, with feet stretched out on the hearthrug: another male figure with back turned towards the room, gazing out of window at the unceasing rain. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke, and silence.
"Of all the brutal, filthy, miserably depressing days!" said the man at the window, suddenly.
"'I'M IN AN AWFUL FUNK,' SAID WARRINGTON."
"Weather seems to worry you, old man," said the gentleman by the fire, settling down a little deeper into the depths of his armchair. "Third time in twenty minutes you've got up to look at it—and talk about it."
"Sorry, Vic," said the other, and, turning, he came slowly towards the fire. "I must be lively company to-day; but this weather seems to upset one altogether."
"Not me," said Vicary, blowing a cloud. "I'm pretty comfy, thanks. I prefer rain in St. James' to starlight in Chukundra."
The other did not answer, but stood nervously opening and shutting his hands over the cheerful blaze.