s so enthusiastic, isn't she? Brenda, I mean," Miss Tattersall went
on, and as I listened I compared her to the stable-clock. She, too, was a
persistent outrage, a hindrance to whatever it was that I was waiting for.

Mrs. Sturton and her husband were coming back, with an appearance of
unwillingness, into the warmth and light of the Hall. The dear lady was
still at her congratulations on the delightfulness of the evening, but
they were tempered, now, by a hint of apology for "spoiling it--to a
certain extent--I hope I haven't--by this unfortunate contretemps."

The Jervaises were uncomfortably warm in their reassurances. They felt, no
doubt, the growing impatience of all their other visitors pressing forward
with the reminder that if the Sturtons' cab did not come at once, there
would be no more dancing.

Half-way up the stairs little Nora Bailey's high laughing voice was
embroidering her statement with regard to the extra stroke of the
stable-clock.

"I had a kind of premonition that it was going to, as soon as it began,"
she was saying.

Gordon Hughes was telling the old story of the sentry who had saved his
life by a similar counting of the strokes of midnight.

And at the back of my mind my daemon was still thrusting out little spurts
of enthralling allegory. The Sturtons and Jervaises had been driven in
from the open. They were taking refuge in their house. Presently...

"Given it up?" I remarked with stupid politeness to Miss Tattersall.

"They've sent John round to the stables to inquire," she told me.

I do not know how she knew. "John" was the only man-servant that the
Jervaises employed in the house; butler, footman, valet and goodness knows
what else.

"Mrs. Sturton seems to be afraid of the night-air," Miss Tattersall
remarked with a complacent giggle of self-congratulation on being too
modern for such prejudices. "I simply love the night-air, don't you?" she
continued. "I often go out for a stroll in the garden the last thing."

I guessed her intention, but I was not going to compromise myself by
strolling about the Jervaise domain at midnight with Grace Tattersall.

"Do you? Yes," I agreed, as if I were bound to admire her originality.

They are afraid of the night-air, my allegory went on, and having begun
their retreat, they are now sending out their servant for help. I began to
wonder if I were composing the plot of a grand opera?

John's return convinced me that I was not to be disappoint