One Sunday in March they had been marooned at the club, Steingall
the painter and Quinny the illustrator, and, having lunched late,
had bored themselves separately to their limits over the
periodicals until, preferring to bore each other, they had
gravitated together in easy arm-chairs before the big Renaissance
fireplace. Steingall, sunk in his collar, from behind the
black-rimmed spectacles, which, with their trailing ribbon of
black, gave a touch of Continental elegance to his cropped beard
and colonel's mustaches, watched without enthusiasm the three
mammoth logs, where occasional tiny flames gave forth an illusion
of heat.
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