Jim Bricknell himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat
in a chair in front of the fire, some distance back, and stretched
his long legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his
breast, his young forehead was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles,
he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little tipsy, a little
satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish.

Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and
bottles. It was evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for choice. He
wanted to get fat--that was his idea. But he couldn't bring it off:
he was thin, though not too thin, except to his own thinking.

His sister Julia was bunched up in a low chair between him and his
father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up
like a witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke
out of the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight,
untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She was talking to the
young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young fellow
in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend.

The only other person stood at the round table pouring out red wine.
He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia's husband,
Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to be demobilised, when he would
become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls,
and his eyes grew a little moist. The room was hot and subdued,
everyone was silent.

"I say," said Robert suddenly, from the rear--"anybody have a drink?
Don't you find it rather hot?"