“In this case, Major, it’s not our nettle,” retorted Lucien, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind him.

In the passage they encountered Canon Clore, arrayed in a dressing-gown of Albanian embroidery, which might have escaped remark in a Te Deum service in the Cathedral of the Assumption at Moscow, but which looked out of place in the corridor of an English country house. But then, as Lucien observed to himself, at a fire one can wear anything.

“The house is on fire,” said the Canon, with the air of one who lends dignity to a fact by according it gracious recognition.

“It’s in the east wing, I think,” said the Major.