lustration: "WIPE IT OFF," SHE REQUESTED RESIGNEDLY, "WIPE IT OFF AND
NEVER TELL"]

The operation and the drive that preceded it had occupied considerable
time. It was an hour since the party had separated at the yacht club's
pier. The brief interval of comparative clearness had given place to
dark skies across which the capricious wind herded masses of gray cloud.
And presently several drops of rain fell and trickled down the
wind-shield of the car.

"Hurry," Isabel urged, sitting up with renewed animation. "It is going
to pour."

"The little machine isn't capable of much hurrying on this road," Gerard
regretted. "She hasn't any speed, of course. How far have we left to
go?"

"A long way, seven or eight miles. We haven't passed the country club,
yet."

"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