She did not attempt to dissuade him; as a matter of fact, she felt relieved to be left alone for a moment.  She must leave as soon as dinner was over.  She began to wonder about the trains.  The storm was raging outside.  She could hear the frenzied trees flinging their branches about and a noisy flood of rain against the windows.  She spoke to the Japanese boy as he was carrying away Flint’s unfinished fish course.

“Do you know what time the next train leaves?”

He laid the tray on the serving-table.  “Please....  I telephone.  Please!” He bobbed at her absurdly and went out into the hall.  She listened.  He was ringing up the station-master.  He came back promptly.

“Please,” he began, sucking in his breath, “please ... no train to-night.”

“No train to-night?  Why, what do you mean?”

“Please ... very much water.  Train track washed out.  No train to-night.  To-morrow morning, maybe.”

“Oh, but I must go home to-night!  I really must!  I....”

She broke off suddenly, realizing the futility of her protest.

“To-morrow morning,” replied the Japanese, blandly.  “All right to-morrow morning.  You stay here....  I fix a place.  You see....  I fix a very nice place for young lady.”

He went out with the tray and Claire rose and walked to the window.  Flint broke into the room noisily.  She turned—­he had two dusty bottles in his hand, and an air of triumph.

“Mr. Flint, it seems that there has been a washout.  I understand that no trains are running.  What can I do?  I must get back; really I....”

“Who says so?” Flint laid the bottles down with an irritating calmness.

“The station-master.  Your ... your servant just telephoned for me.”

“Oh, well, we should worry!  Sit down.”

“Mr. Flint, really, I must....  You know I can’t....  I....”

“Sit down!”

His tone was a dash of cold water thrown in the face of her rising hysteria.  She sat down.  Flint ignored the bottles on the table and, crossing over to the Sheraton sideboard, poured himself a stiff drink of whisky.  His hair-towsled condition stood out sharply against the precise background.

He made no further comment, but he began to open the bottles of wine deliberately.  Then he rummaged in the china-closet for the wine-glasses and set four, two at his place and two at Claire’s, upon the table.

“White wine with the entree and red wine with the roast,” he muttered.  And he poured out the white wine without further ado.

The servant came in with creamed sweetbreads.  Claire forced herself to make a pretense of eating, although her appetite had long since deserted her.  She was thinking, and thinking hard.