Part 20

"But Corrie drove over in an hour!"

"With his big car, yes," she retorted. "Perhaps this was not the best way, after all. But it would take longer to go back, now, than to keep on."

This was obvious. There was nothing to do except force the skidding, panting automobile to maintain its best gait.

They were destined to lose that race. As they came opposite a low brick building set amidst rolling green slopes and stretches of flag-dotted turf, the storm overtook them.

"Up the driveway," Isabel cried. "We can just make it. This is the country club--we'll 'phone home where we are staying."

Gerard sent the car up the wide gravelled path. An attendant was waiting to receive them, another assumed charge of the automobile, and Isabel's escort found himself standing beside her on the veranda with rather confused ideas of how the affair had been accomplished.

"Koma says there is no one else here," she informed him. "We have all the place to ourselves. How it rains!"

It certainly was raining, raining violently and steadily, a gray downpour from a gray sky. She paused to look before continuing.

"I'll 'phone to Flavia, first of all. I can see we are going to have a long wait. Koma will get us the best luncheon he knows how. Aren't you hungry? I am. Come in."

Gerard uttered some reply. He was profoundly vexed at his situation, without being able to blame himself for it or to fix any actual fault upon Isabel. She had already turned away to enter the hall, and presently he heard the tinkle of the telephone bell, followed by her high-pitched voice.

"One one seven? Martin, I want Miss Rose. Yes, it is I. Oh!----We're at the country club, Corrie. No, we didn't get lost; we just chose that road.... Not a bit, it was good sport. We're having luncheon together, here, and then I suppose we will play billiards until the rain stops. Tell Flavia not to worry; we'll get home by dinner-time, and we're enjoying ourselves.... Not wet, just splashed. Mr. Gerard spoiled a handkerchief drying me, that's all the damage. Good-by."

She reappeared on the threshold, complacently satisfied. She had removed her hood and veils, shaken her ruddy hair into becoming disorder, and knew herself at her best.

"You are enjoying yourself, aren't you?" she demanded.

"Certainly," Gerard responded, without enthusiasm.

"Why not come in, then? Which do you like most to commence a luncheon----Blue Points or little clams? Corrie and I quarrel over that every time we are out together. He is as obstinate as, as--Corrie!"

"Clams," said he, at a venture. He had a vague recollection of seeing Corrie dismiss oysters with scorn, and he felt viciously contrary.

"Why, so do I," agreed Isabel winningly. "Let us order some."

One cannot be disagreeable to a young girl under one's care, who also is in a sense one's hostess. The luncheon was sufficiently gay. The rain fell incessantly, beating against the diamond-paned windows, gurgling down eaves and gutter-ways.

"We should have sailed home in the Dear Me," Isabel declared. "I am sure there is enough water on the roads. Why did we not think of it?"

She detached a chrysanthemum petal from the vase of blossoms central on the table, and dropped it into her finger-bowl, watching the agitation of a diminutive scarlet-and-black beetle perched upon the sinking leaf.

"An execution?" Gerard inquired.

She raised her eyes, pouting prettily, and nodded.

"I hate those bugs," she explained. "Ugly animals! We put them in and wager a box of bon-bons on how long they last. If it is still alive at the end of five minutes, I lose. If it is drowned, I win."

"Does Corrie play that game with you?"

"N'no. Corrie doesn't like it. He will step off of a sidewalk into the mud to avoid treading on a cricket. Do you suppose I never play with any one except my cousin? Will you try this wager? You're not silly?"

"I will, if I may. If that lady-bug is alive five minutes from now, I win? No other conditions?"

"None," gleefully. "Take your watch. You'll lose, he's weakening now."

Gerard leaned across, lifted the struggling beetle upon his finger-tip, and restored it to the safe refuge of the chrysanthemum bouquet.