The object of this indifference and scorn gazed long and hard at the blob of light across the ravine.  His heart was beating fast, and his body tingled with a strange excitement, which made itself manifest in a mixture of impatient frowns and prophetic smiles.

“If it wasn’t such a beastly night,” he was muttering in one breath, and, “Still, it’s just the sort of a night we want,” in the next.  He was looking at his watch in the light from the window when an automobile whizzed up the wet gravel drive and came to a stop in front of the club steps.  As Dauntless re-entered the house from the verandah, a tall young man in a motor coat and goggles came in through the opposite door.  They paused and looked steadily at each other, then nodded briefly.  The crowd of loungers glanced at the two men with instant curiosity and then breathed easily.  The man who was going to marry Miss Thursdale and the man who wanted to marry her were advancing to shake hands—­a trifle awkwardly, perhaps, but more or less frankly.

“Rough weather for motoring,” remarked Dauntless, nervously.  Windomshire removed his cap and goggles.

“Beastly.  I just ran over for something to warm the inside man.  Won’t you join me?” His voice was pleasant to the ear, his manner easy and appealing.  He was not so good looking as Dauntless, true, but he had the air of a thoroughbred in his make-up—­from head to foot.

“Sit down here,” called Mrs. Scudaway readily, creating a general shift of chairs.  The two men hesitated a moment, nervousness apparent in both, and then sat down quickly.  The Englishman was next Mrs. Scudaway.  “What were you doing out in the rain?” she asked after the order for drinks had been taken.

“Hurrying to get out of it,” he said with evasive good humour, “and thinking how much nicer your fogs are than ours,” he added quickly.

“Anybody come over with you?” asked the bore, agreeably.

“No, they’re playing bridge over at Mrs. Thursdale’s and that lets me out.  Beastly headache, too.  Got out for a breath of air.”  The silence that followed this observation seemed to call for further explanations.  “Miss Thursdale retired soon after dinner, wretchedly under the weather.  That rather left me adrift, don’t you know.  I’m not playing bridge this year.”

“You’re not?  Why not, pray?”

“Chiefly because of last year.  My Mercedes came on from New York yesterday and I got her out for a spin.  Couldn’t resist, don’t you know.  She’s working beautifully.”

“There’s one thing about a Mercedes that I don’t like—­and you don’t find it in a Panhard.  I’ve got a Panhard and—­” Dobson was saying with all the arrogance of a motor fiend, when Mrs. Scudaway ruthlessly and properly cut him off.

“We know all about your Panhard, Dobby.  Don’t bother.  Is Eleanor really ill, Mr. Windomshire?”

“I had it from her own lips, Mrs. Scudaway.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.  Is it likely to be serious?”