“Kemp will get you home, Paine, when he takes the tea things.”

Randy wanted to throw something after him—­preferably a tomahawk—­as Dalton went down the hill, triumphantly, shielding Becky from the elements.

He watched until a curtain of rain shut them out, but he heard the roar of the motor cutting through the clamor of the storm.

“Well, they’re off, sir,” said Kemp cheerfully.

He was packing the Canton teapot in its basket and was folding up the chairs and tables.  Randy had a sense of outrage.  Here he was, a Randolph Paine of King’s Crest, left behind in the rain with a man who had his mind on—­teapots——­ He stood immovable in the arched opening, his arms folded, and with the rain beating in upon him.

“You’ll get wet,” Kemp reminded him; “it’s better on this side, sir.”

“I don’t mind the rain.  I won’t melt; I’ve had two years in France.”

“You have, sir?” something in Kemp’s voice made Randy turn and look at him.  The little man had his arms full of biscuit boxes, and he was gazing at Randy with a light in his eyes which had not been for Dalton.

“I had three years myself.  And the best of my life, sir.”

Randy nodded.  “A lot of us feel that way.”

“The fighting,” said Kemp, “was something awful.  But it was—­big—­and after it things seem a bit small, sir.”  He drew a long breath and came back to his Canton teapot and his folding table and his plans for departure.

“I’ll be glad to take you in the little car, Mr. Paine.”

“No,” said Randy; “no, thank you, Kemp.  I’ll wait here until the storm is over.”

Kemp, with a black rubber cape buttoned about his shoulders and standing out over his load like a lady’s hoopskirts, bobbed down the path and was gone.

Randy was glad to be alone.  He was glad to get wet, he was glad of the roar and of the tumult which matched the tumult in his soul.

Somehow he had never dreamed of this—­that somebody would come into Becky’s life and take her away——­

Nellie Custis shivered and whined.  She hated thunder-storms.  Randy sat down on the step and she crept close to him.  He laid his hand on her head and fear left her—­as fear had left Becky in the presence of Dalton.

After that the boy and the dog sat like statues, looking out, and in those tense and terrible moments a new spirit was born in Randolph Paine.  Hitherto he had let life bring him what it would.  He had scarcely dared hope that it would bring him Becky.  But now he knew that if he lost her he would face—­chaos——­

Well, he would not lose her.  Or if he did, it would not be to let her marry a man like Dalton.  Surely she wouldn’t.  She couldn’t——­ But there had been that light in her eyes, that flame in her cheek—­that lack of fear—­Dalton’s air of assurance, the way she had turned to him.

“Oh, God,” he said suddenly, out loud, “don’t let Dalton have her.”