Mr. Bingle had
spent most of the evening in trying to coax heat from the lower
regions into the pipes of the seventh heaven wherein he dwelt, and
without the slightest sign of success. The frigid coils in the corner
of the room remained obdurate. If they indicated the slightest symptom
of warmth during the evening, it was due entirely to the expansive
generosity of the humble grate and not because they were moved by
inward remorse. They were able, however, to supply the odour of far-
off steam, as of an abandoned laundry; and sometimes they chortled
meanly, revealing signs of an energy that in anything but a steam pipe
might have been mistaken for a promise to do better.
Mr. Bingle poked the fire and looked at his watch. Then he crossed to
the window, drew the curtains and shade aside and tried to peer
through the frosty panes into the street, seven stories below. A holly
wreath hung suspended in the window, completely obscured from view on
one side by hoar frost, on the other by a lemon-coloured window shade
that had to be handled with patience out of respect for a lapsed
spring at the top.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25