Sir Oliver hospitably pushed John and the old doctor toward the drawing-room door. “There are drinks in the library. It 'll be cosier there, on the other side of the house, away from this confounded racket. Come along, Walter. Stella, darling, you had better go to bed. It 's the best place for little girls in a thunder-storm.”
She turned, the breadth of the drawing-room separating Walter Herold and herself from the others.
“I 'll stay up a little longer and look at it, dear Excellency,” she said, with a smile. “I 'll come into the library later and tell you all good night.”
At this announcement, and Stellamaris's announcements had ever been sovereign decrees, John and Dr. Ransome, standing by the open door, obeyed the courteous wave of Sir Oliver's hand. The old man waited for Herold, who advanced a pace or two.
“I suppose you 're dying for whisky and soda,” said Stella, resignedly.
He stopped short. “Not in the least. I would far rather look at this,”—he flung a hand toward the window,—“if you would let me.”
“Only for five minutes, Favourite, dear; then I 'll send you away.”
Sir Oliver went out, shutting the door behind him. Herold and Stellamaris were alone in the spacious room. There came another flash and the thunder peal, and the rain spattered hard on the stone terrace.
“Why should n't we sit down?” he asked, and drew a small settee to the window.
She stood, expectant of the lightning. It came and lit up a suddenly tempestuous sea. With her eyes straining at the blackness, she said in a low, voice: