"Sort of weather that generally ends in a thunderstorm."
"Does it? Well—perhaps it does."
"Don't you think it does?"
"I thought it felt very like thunder an hour ago."
"Rather more than an hour ago, wasn't it?"
"Just after lunch—about two o'clock."
"Dessay you're right. I should have said a quarter to." Now, if this sort of thing had continued, it must have ended in a joint laugh, and recognition of its absurdity. Aunt Constance may have foreseen this, inwardly, and not been prepared to go so fast. For she accommodated the conversation with a foothold, partly ethical, partly scientific.
"Some people feel the effect of thunder much more than others. No doubt it is due to the electrical condition of the atmosphere. Before this was understood, it was ascribed to all sorts of causes."
"I expect it's nerves. Haven't any myself! Rather like tropical storms than otherwise."
Here was an opportunity to thaw the surface ice. The lady could have done it in an instant, by talking to the gentleman about himself. That is the "Open Sesame!" of human intercourse. She preferred to say that in their village—her clan's, that is—in Dorsetshire, there was a sept named Chobey that always went into an underground cellar and stopped its ears, whenever there was a thunderstorm.