“My father often spoke of your shooting with a revolver, Mr Brood,” said Lydia. “He said it was really marvellous.”
Yvonne laughed. “How interesting to have a husband who can even see as far as thirty paces. But revolver shooting is a doubtful accomplishment in these days of peace, isn't it? What is there to shoot at?”
“Mad dogs and—men,” said Brood. Lydia's look required an answer. “No, I've never shot a mad dog, Lydia.”
“Who was the young woman with the lisp, Freddy?” asked Yvonne abruptly.
“Miss Dangerfield. Isn't she amusing? I love that soft Virginia drawl of hers. She's pretty, too. Old Hodder was quite taken with her.”
A long, reverberating roll of thunder, ending in an ear-splitting crash that seemed no farther away than the window casement behind them, brought sharp exclamations of terror from the lips of the two women. The men, appalled, started to their feet.
“Good Lord, that was close!” cried Frederic. “There was no sign of a storm when we came in—just a steady, gentle spring rain.”
“I am frightened,” shuddered Yvonne, wide-eyed with fear. “Do you think———”
“It struck near by, that's all,” said Brood. “Lightning bolts are deceptive. One may think they strike at one's very elbow, and yet the spot is really miles away. I hope your mother is not distressed, my dear,” turning to Lydia. “She is afraid of the lightning, I know.”
Lydia sprang to her feet. “I must go home at once, Mr Brood. She will be dreadfully frightened. I——”