“This is a trifle rough on inoffensive pilgrims,” said Graeme.  “I’m really sorry to have got you into it.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you, Mr. Graeme?” asked Miss Penny, with pointed emphasis.

“I did not.  I devoutly wish you were both safe home in the Rue Lucas.”

“All in good time.  Meanwhile, we might be worse off, and this tea is going to be excellent.  Margaret, my child, do you know that tea under these conditions is infinitely preferable to tea in Melgrave Square, under any conditions whatsoever?”

“It is certainly a change,” said Margaret.

“And a very decided improvement.  It’s what some of my young friends would call ‘just awfully jolly decent,’” said Miss Penny.

“We’re not out of the wood—­that is to say, the island—­yet,” suggested Graeme.

“Or we shouldn’t be here enjoying ourselves like this.  Brecqhou is sheer delight.”

“On a fine day,” said Margaret quietly.

“Or in a thunderstorm,” asserted Miss Penny militantly.  But Margaret would not fight lest it should seem like casting reflections on their present estate.

The thunder rolled over the wide waters with a majesty of utterance novel to their unaccustomed city ears, the rain drew a storm-gray veil over everything past the well, the wind waxed into hysterical fury, tore at the roof and gables, and went shrieking on over Sark.  And above the rush of wind and rain, in the short pauses between the thunder-peals, the hoarse roar of the waves along the black bastions of Brecqhou grew louder and louder in their ears.

Graeme’s face grew somewhat anxious, as he stood at the window and peered westward as far as he could see, and found nothing but fury and blackness there.  He had a dim recollection of hearing of outer islands such as this being cut off from the mainland for days at a time.  He could imagine what the sea must be like among the tumbled rocks below.  And he had seen the Race of the Gouliot in storm time once before, and doubted much if any boat would face the whirl and rush of its piled-up waters.

What on earth were they to do if the men could not get across for them?

Suppose they had to pass the night there?

Good Heavens!  Suppose they could not get across for days?  What were they to live on?—­to come at once to the lowest but most pressing necessity of the situation?

They had weather-proof shelter.  Firing they could procure from the interior woodwork of the house and outbuildings.  And they had a small amount of tea and sugar, and half a tin of condensed milk, and rather more than half of the day’s provisions, since they had contemplated high tea before embarking again.  He determined that, if the storm showed no signs of abating, the high tea must be a low one, since its constituents might possibly have to serve for to-morrow’s breakfast as well.

Both girls, their own perceptions strung tight by the electric state of matters outside, noticed the touch of anxiety in his face as he turned from the window, but both declined to show it.