"There are clouds coming up from the Atlantic," said Isabel, turning round abruptly. "Mrs. Baxter, we must either lose the pleasure of Mr. da Rocha's company, or else let him be soaked through."
Filled with a deep dread of the dreary half-hour when, having recited her own history, she must listen to another's, Mrs. Baxter was relieved to see Antonio go. The Iberian flourishes which adorned his parting compliments completed her satisfaction. Why had no one ever spoken so nicely to her in England? She shook hands with Antonio, and very graciously pressed him to come and drink tea as soon as he should be able.
Isabel accompanied him to the top of the stone steps.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"Sorry?"
"About Mrs. Baxter. No! Don't say anything insincere. I know as well as you do that you hated it as much as I did. I could put up with the tale when it was half truth and half white lies. But it has changed with every telling until it's nearly all jet-black fibs. My mother liked her poor friends more than her rich ones; but Mrs. Baxter was not her friend. Nor is Mrs. Baxter's name Clara. It is plain Jane."
Antonio smiled. "Anyhow, I've got it over," he said. "It had to come, some time or other. But where are your clouds that are going to drench me to the skin?"
"Over there," answered Isabel, pointing to one tiny milk-white cirrus adrift in the clear blue lake of heaven. "It's as large as a man's hand. You think I'm irreligious; but I've read the Bible, and I remember something about a cloud no bigger than a man's hand which worked some miracle."
"That little cloud delivered Israel from drought and from famine," said Antonio.
"And this little cloud has delivered you from Mrs. Baxter and from ... me," she retorted.