How difficult it was to start a fire. A really good fire that would burn a building down not just piece by piece but all at one time and with, in particular, Miss Gilland in it. (Smith’s body was of no concern, he no longer being vocal.) Mrs. Millay, in the deepening tones of evening and with a tiresome continuation of her new mode of heavy breathing, examined futility.
A window curtain held incendiary value, but you couldn’t run around with a lighted match, even granting there might be some matches, from curtain to curtain rapidly enough to effect a simultaneous result. And nothing short of one would do any good. The first flare—the first puff of smoke—and the diners would cry Fire. The flicker would be doused out with a bucket of water.
Mattresses and bedding just smoldered. It was the
