She went out into the entrance hall and put on her hat.

CHAPTER VII

Midway between Yolanda and Sausalito Stillman’s machine died with disconcerting suddenness The rain was coming down in sheets.  Stillman got out.

“It’s no use,” he announced, lifting himself back into his seat.  “I can’t do anything in this deluge.”

This was the first word that had been said since he and Claire had left Flint’s.

“The worst will be over in a few moments,” replied Claire, easily.  But she was far from reassured.

The deluge was not over in a few moments.  It kept up with an ever-increasing violence, until it seemed that even the stalled car would be compelled to yield to its force.  Claire had never seen it rain harder; the storm had a vindictive fury that reminded her of the dreadful tempest in “King Lear.”

Stillman maintained his usual well-bred calm and smoked cigarettes while he chattered.  He touched on every conceivable subject but the one uppermost in Claire’s mind, until she began to wonder whether delicacy or contempt veiled his conversation.  A half-hour passed ... an hour ... two.  Still the rain swept from the sullen sky.  Twice Stillman made a futile attempt to remedy the trouble with his engine, and twice he retired defeated to the shelter of the car.  Claire was relieved that she was in the company of a man who did not emphasize the monotonous hours by indiscriminate raillery against the tricks of chance.  At first he dismissed the situation with the most casual of shrugs; later he acknowledged his annoyance by an expression of regret at his companion’s discomfort, but he stopped there.

As the hours went on, with no abatement of the storm’s devastating energy, Claire grew less and less pleased at the prospect.  She began to wonder whether the shelter of Flint’s roof had not been, after all, the discreet thing.  Was not her headlong flight in company with Stillman more open to criticism than the frank acceptance of her employer’s hospitality?  But these vagrant questions were the spawn of a colorless spirit of social expediency which fastens itself on weak natures, and in Claire’s case they died still-born.  She had been too well schooled in loneliness to lean heavily on the crooked stick of public opinion.  Accustomed to standing alone, she had something of the spiritual arrogance that goes with independence.  People could think what they liked.  And it was more a realization of her mother’s anxiety than any thought of self which made her suggest to Stillman that they might get out and walk into Sausalito.

“I think the last boat leaves there at twelve-thirty,” she finished.  “Surely we could make it if we keep going.”

Stillman thrust his arm out into the drenching rain, and withdrew it instantly.  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, so long as the rain keeps up, Miss Robson,” he said, in a tone of implied objection.  “Perhaps if it should stop....”