the cone

THE CONEThe night was hot and overcast, the sky red, rimmed with thelingering sunset of mid-summer. They sat at the open window,trying to fancy the air was fresher there. The trees and shrubs ofthe garden stood stiff and dark; beyond in the roadway a gas-lamp burnt, bright orange against the hazy blue of the evening.Farther were the three lights of the railway signal against thelowering sky. The man and woman spoke to one another in low tones."He does not suspect?" said the man, a little nervously."Not he," she said peevishly, as though that too irritatedher. "He thinks of nothing but the works and the prices of fuel.He has no imagination, no poetry."...

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