Mrs. Brent, feeling the thunderous closeness of the night, had made her way to a chair beside one of the deep windows; and leaning back in it she tried to persuade herself that she felt a breath of cooler air. Wraxall and Mrs. Dangerfield followed her, and they were joined almost immediately by the doctor. Helga Dangerfield circled round the two tables, halting for a moment or two to scan the cards. Then, saying she had some letters to write, she left the room.
“The storm must be coming to-night,” Mrs. Brent asserted, as a faint puff of sultry air momentarily stirred the curtain beside her. “It’s been banking up all day; and I’m sure it can’t keep off much longer. I can feel all my nerves atwitch.”
Wraxall bent forward in his chair and scanned the heavy clouds.
“I’m not up in your weather-signs,” he said, “but it does seem to me that there’s a shake-up coming. I should certainly judge we’d have rain soon. I should say we’re in for a regular water-spout if those clouds burst overhead. It will be wet.”
The doctor was examining Mrs. Brent’s face with an interest more friendly than professional.
“Nerves?” he asked kindly.
She nodded.
“A dose of bromide? Quieten them, and give you a chance to get to sleep. I can take my car down and make it up for you in ten minutes, if you’d like it.”
Mrs. Brent thanked him with a smile; but she nodded dissent to his suggestion.
“No,” she answered, “I don’t believe in running away from things. I loathe thunder; but I’m not so feeble as all that. I’d much rather take it as it comes.”