"I—I am frightfully afraid of thunder," she cried out after him, a quaver in her voice. "And, Eric, wouldn't it be dreadful if the building were to be struck by lightning and we should be found up here in this—this unexplainable loft? What could we say?"
"Nothing, dearest," he replied, consolingly. "That is, provided the lightning did its work properly. Ouch! It's all right! Don't bother, dear. Nothing but a wall. Seems dry over here. Don't move. I'll come back for you."
"It's—it's rather jolly, isn't it?" she cried nervously as his hand touched her shoulder. She grasped it eagerly. "Much jollier than if we could see." A few moments later: "Isn't it nice and dry over here. How clever of you, Eric, to find it in the dark."
On their hands and knees they had crept to the place of shelter, and were seated on a broad, substantial beam with their backs against a thin, hollow-sounding partition. The journey was not without incident. As they felt their way over the loose and sometimes widely separated boards laid down to protect the laths and plaster of the ceiling below, his knee slipped off and before he could prevent it, his foot struck the lathing with considerable force.
"Clumsy ass!" he muttered.
After a long time, she said to him,—a little pathetically:
"I hope M. Mirabeau doesn't forget we are up here."
"I should hope not," he said fervently. "Mrs. Millidew is going out to dinner this evening. I'd—"
"Oh-h!" she whispered tensely. "Look!"
A thin streak of light appeared in front of them. Fascinated, they watched it widen, slowly,—relentlessly.