In an ugly little mining town we find the odd ones just as distinct as
anywhere else. Only it happens that dull people invariably meet dull
people, and odd individuals always come across odd individuals, no
matter where they may be. So that to each kind society seems all of
a piece.

At one end of the dark tree-covered Shottle Lane stood the "Royal Oak"
public house; and Mrs. Houseley was certainly an odd woman. At the
other end of the lane was Shottle House, where the Bricknells lived;
the Bricknells were odd, also. Alfred Bricknell, the old man, was one
of the partners in the Colliery firm. His English was incorrect, his
accent, broad Derbyshire, and he was not a gentleman in the snobbish
sense of the word. Yet he was well-to-do, and very stuck-up. His wife
was dead.

Shottle House stood two hundred yards beyond New Brunswick Colliery.
The colliery was imbedded in a plantation, whence its burning pit-
hill glowed, fumed, and stank sulphur in the nostrils of the
Bricknells. Even war-time efforts had not put out this refuse fire.
Apart from this, Shottle House was a pleasant square house, rather
old, with shrubberies and lawns. It ended the lane in a dead end.
Only a field-path trekked away to the left.

On this particular Christmas Eve Alfred Bricknell had only two of his
children at home. Of the others, one daughter was unhappily married,
and away in India weeping herself thinner; another was nursing her
babies in Streatham. Jim, the hope of the house, and Julia, now
married to Robert Cunningham, had come home for Christmas.