Claire settled back in her seat.  Stillman was right.  The storm was too furious to be lightly braved.

It was eleven o’clock before a quick veering of the wind brought a downpour so violent that what had gone before seemed little better than a rather weak rehearsal.

“It will clear presently,” Stillman assured Claire.  “Southeaster always break up in a flurry like this from the west.”

In ten minutes the stars were peeping brilliantly through rents in the torn clouds.  Pungent odors floated up from the rain-trampled stubble of the hillsides, the air was cleared of its stifling oppressiveness, the first storm of the season was over.

Both Claire and Stillman clambered out at the first signs of the storm’s exhaustion.  Stillman switched on his pocket-light and began to investigate the trouble with the engine.  His decision was swift and conclusive.

“It’s hopeless,” he announced, turning to Claire with a slight grimace.  “We’re stalled absolutely and no mistake.  I guess we’d better strike out and walk.  No doubt we’ll get a lift into Sausalito before we’ve gone very far, but I dare say it’s well to be on the safe side.”

They rolled the machine to one side of the roadway and struck out hopefully.  The rain had made a thin chocolate ooze of the highway, and before they had gone a hundred yards their shoes were slimy with mud.  It appeared that Stillman had been something of an aimless wanderer for many years, and as he talked on and on, giving detached glimpses of the remote places he had visited, Claire had a curious sense of futility.

She read between his clipped and vivid sentences the tragedy of a personality worsted by the soft hands of circumstances.  This man might have done things.  As it was he was an idler.  He gave her the impression of a man waiting vaguely for opportunity—­like some traveler pacing restlessly up and down a railway station platform in expectation of the momentary arrival of a delayed train.  She tried to imagine him as she felt sure he must once have been—­youthful, eager, ardent, a man of charming enthusiasms that just missed being extravagances, who could bring zest to his virtues as well as to his follies.

“Surely,” she thought, “something more than inclination must have pushed him into this deadly stagnation.”

And at once Miss Munch’s insinuating question leaped up to answer: 

“You know about his wife, of course!”

Were men put out of countenance by such impersonal tricks of fortune?  Impersonal?... this domestic tragedy?...  Yes, Claire felt that it must be, otherwise the man tramping at her side would have wrestled so passionately against fate as to have come away at least spattered with the mud of defeat.  No, Stillman was not defeated, he was merely arrested, restrained, held for orders.

He had been in London when the war broke out.  He had stayed long enough to watch the stolid, easy-going British public awake to the seriousness of the encounter, coming home after the first air raids.