“Still, it’s the kind of book people call very clever,” Miss Allan added.

“Maternity—­by Michael Jessop—­I presume,” Mr. Elliot put in, for he could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.

“D’you know,” said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, “I don’t think people do write good novels now—­not as good as they used to, anyhow.”

No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her.  Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game, sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was half asleep, and said humorously, “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Allan.”

The others looked up.  They were glad that he had not spoken to them.  But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, “I was thinking of my imaginary uncle.  Hasn’t every one got an imaginary uncle?” she continued.  “I have one—­a most delightful old gentleman.  He’s always giving me things.  Sometimes it’s a gold watch; sometimes it’s a carriage and pair; sometimes it’s a beautiful little cottage in the New Forest; sometimes it’s a ticket to the place I most want to see.”

She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted.  Mrs. Elliot knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual little pucker deepened on her brow.

“We’re such lucky people,” she said, looking at her husband.  “We really have no wants.”  She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince herself, and partly in order to convince other people.  But she was prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the chess-board.  Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever.  A great strand of black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them.

Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the storm.

“It was a wonderful sight,” he said.  “The lightning went right out over the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away.  You can’t think how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and the great masses of shadow.  It’s all over now.”

He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of the game.

“And you go back to-morrow?” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs. Flushing.

“Yes,” she replied.

“And indeed one is not sorry to go back,” said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an air of mournful anxiety, “after all this illness.”

“Are you afraid of dyin’?” Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully.

“I think we are all afraid of that,” said Mrs. Elliot with dignity.

“I suppose we’re all cowards when it comes to the point,” said Mrs. Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair.  “I’m sure I am.”