“I’ll get it over, at least,” he said to himself.
In spite of his age, Rollo Dangerfield was an early riser, compared with some of his guests. He had breakfasted an hour before, and Wraxall found him in the morning-room, engrossed in a newspaper. As his guest came in, Rollo put the sheet aside and looked up.
“Terrible storm last night, Mr. Wraxall. I hope it didn’t keep you awake through half the night.”
“I like storms,” the American assured him. “I sat up a good part of the night to watch that one. It would have been a pity to miss it. I enjoyed it—immensely. The effects were very fine at times, Mr. Dangerfield, very fine indeed. A magnificent spectacle.”
Rollo Dangerfield seemed relieved that his guest had suffered no inconvenience.
“I wish everybody could say the same,” he said. “Poor Mrs. Brent didn’t share your enthusiasm, I’m afraid. She’s peculiarly sensitive to electrical conditions—always has been so. Her nerves seem to go all to pieces in a storm, and I think that one last night affected her badly. She went off in the Kestrel this morning before any of us were up, and I expect she’ll stay away until she gets back to normal again.”
The American paused a moment or two before replying.
“I’m sorry to hear that. She didn’t strike me as a nervous type. I should have said she was very well balanced, if you’d asked my opinion.”
“Each of us has his own special weakness,” said the old man, phlegmatically. “Some people can’t stand cats, for some reason. I dislike house-spiders intensely myself, though I can’t give you any grounds for my aversion. In Mrs. Brent’s case, it seems to be thunder and lightning. A storm shakes her completely.”
Wraxall let the subject drop. Old Dangerfield puzzled him at this moment. Of course the English had the knack of concealing their feelings; but he had expected something different in Rollo this morning, if the story about the Talisman were true. He resolved on a direct attack.