There was no fried chicken, but there were beefsteak and mushrooms and new potatoes and asparagus, a very fine expensive salad made of grapefruit, and as a last perfect touch, strawberries and cream.
The motor party had planned to leave Mr. Moore’s place half an hour after lunch and start on their travels again, but while they feasted black clouds had been piling themselves into a formidable storm and now came flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder. The house grew so dark that Takamini lit some candles and placed them on the table.
Then came the rain, pouring in torrents.
Miss Campbell looked uncomfortable.
“I am afraid, Mr. Moore, you have undertaken more than you expected,” she said.
But Mr. Moore was quite equal to this call upon his hospitality. “I hope it will be one of our three-day storms,” he said smiling cordially. “The roads would be far too muddy for motoring then, and I should have the pleasure of entertaining you longer.”
“Oh, we couldn’t let you do that, Mr. Moore. You are too kind. We must go to the next town and stop at the hotel.”
“I assure you, Miss Campbell, you are like messengers from heaven. You came in the nick of time to keep me from being plunged into such a state of gloom I might never have come out of it.”
“But you don’t look gloomy,” protested Nancy.
“I know,” he replied. “People of my complexion never get the credit for being melancholy. But occasionally, you know, we are subject to spasms due chiefly to loneliness, I think.”