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 his pipe in front of a smouldering soft coal fire in the studio. By the time his pipe had burned out a little snowstorm had set in, and Miles, fresh from unclouded skies and eternal sun-shine, donned his rain-coat and went out. It was a trifling snow that melted as soon as it reached the dirty pavements, but it was something of a novelty and therefore enjoyable. Miles turned at the Avenue and loitered up town.

The city was in holiday garb. The shop windows looked their finest, garlands and wreaths of holly and laurel adorned the buildings, and along the curbs itinerant venders of crawling and hopping tin toys did a thriving business. Even the faces of the hurrying shoppers betokened something of the Christmas spirit. Miles dodged between yellow cars and mud-splashed