"Thank the gods, we are the only guests!" said Nap that evening, as they sat down to dine at the table at which they had lunched.
The glare of a lurid sunset streamed across the sky and earth. There was a waiting stillness upon all things. It was the hush before the storm.
An unwonted restlessness had taken possession of Anne. She did not echo his thanksgiving, an omission which he did not fail to note, but upon which he made no comment.
It was in fact scarcely a place for any but day visitors, being some considerable distance from the beaten track. The dinner placed before them was not of a very tempting description, and Anne's appetite dwindled very rapidly.
"You must eat something," urged Nap. "Satisfy your hunger with strawberries and cream."
But Anne had no hunger to satisfy, and she presently rose from the table with something like a sigh of relief.
They went into the drawing-room, a room smelling strongly of musk, and littered largely with furniture of every description. Nap opened wide a door-window that led into a miniature rosegarden. Beyond stretched the common, every detail standing out with marvellous vividness in the weird storm-light.
"St. Christopher!" he murmured softly. "We are going to catch it."
Anne sat down in a low chair near him, gazing forth in silence, her chin on her hand.
He turned a little and looked down at her, and thus some minutes slipped away, the man as tensely still as the awe-stricken world without, the woman deep in thought.