“What did you do then?”
“I did not know of it until a few days ago. He has been dead six months.”
“Then Perdita is in England!” said Marion rapidly, meeting Lancaster’s glance with her own. Except when she was angry, or for some other reason forgot herself, she habitually avoided another person’s glance. For she was of an extremely sensitive, nervous temperament, and the “personal equation” of those with whom she conversed affected her more than physical contact would affect other people.
At this point the dialogue was interrupted by a startling glare of lightning, succeeded almost immediately by a crash of thunder so loud and so heavy as to rattle the window in its frame and jar the floor on which they stood. Marion laughed, and opening the window leaned out. Mrs. Lockhart, who had fallen into a gentle doze in her chair, awoke with a little jump and an exclamation.
“Oh, Marion ... what has gone off? Mr. Grant? Why is the window open? Dear heart! is that the rain? He will be drenched to the skin, Mr. Lancaster.”
“So will you if you don’t shut the window,” said Lancaster to Marion.
She looked round and appeared to answer, but her words were inaudible in the thunderpeal that accompanied them. The rain drove straight downwards with such force and weight that the drops might have been liquid lead. The sky was black.
“I shall take an umbrella and go out and meet him,” Marion was now heard to say.
“Oh, my child, you are mad!” cried Mrs. Lockhart. “Do put down the window, Mr. Lancaster.”
Lancaster complied. Marion glanced at him with an odd, quizzical kind of a smile. He did not know what she meant; but he joined Mrs. Lockhart in denouncing Marion’s project as impossible.