This was Cyril Scott, a friend.
The only other person stood at the round table pouring out red wine.

He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia's husband, Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to be demobilised, when he would become a sculptor once more.

He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist.

The room was hot and subdued, everyone was silent.
"I say," said Robert suddenly, from the rear--"anybody have a drink?
Don't you find it rather hot ?" "Is there another bottle of beer there ?" said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid.
"Yes--I think there is," said Robert.
"Thanks--don't open it yet," murmured Jim.
"Have a drink, Josephine ?" said Robert.
"No thank you," said Josephine, bowing slightly.
Finding the drinks did not go, Robert went round with the cigarettes.
Josephine Ford looked at the white rolls.
"Thank you," she said, and taking one, suddenly licked her rather full, dry red lips with the rapid tip of her tongue.

It was an odd movement, suggesting a snake's flicker.