“Silence!” roared Mr. Steele from the head of the table.
The old gentleman broke down under the rebuke, and began to weep piteously.
“I know my voice isn’t what it was,” he whined, between his sobs—“when I used to sing the late Mr. Gladstone to sleep, after his great speeches—‘Lullaby baby, on the tree-top.’”
He began to sing again, through his tears.
Mr. Steele struck the table with his fist.
“Stop that immediately!” he shouted. “Lady Dorothy—Miss Trevelyan,” he continued, in the silence that followed, “I don’t know what you must think! The thunderstorm is to blame——”
At that moment the howling squall broke open the window at the other end of the room, and a clap of thunder followed instantly. The shaded candles on the table were almost all out, and only a few electric lights illuminated the scene of indescribable panic and confusion that followed a second later.
