Susan sat there, cosily stretched out in a deep armchair placed by an open window. At the big centre table Terry was engaged in the arduous task of selecting the probable winner of the St. Leger; and a litter of sporting journals, both pink and white, a much-thumbed copy of _Racing Up-to-Date_, an open volume of Ruff's _Guide to the Turf_, and sheets upon sheets of notepaper covered with abstruse calculations involving such weird factors as weights, lengths and seconds--testified to his earnestness. His wife was sewing in the chair opposite Susan. At times Terry would sit up abruptly and explode into a concentrated malignant malediction upon every congenital imbecile who ever had, ever did, or ever intended to essay the unravelling of equine form; at other moments he would lean back with a resigned look of martyrdom on his face, heave a long sigh, and offer a fervent prayer to be caught up to heaven in a fiery chariot before he reached the stage of dementia where it would be necessary for him to be hailed to a lunatic asylum--which anguished vociferations only served to convulse his audience with unsympathetic hilarity. Susan had been trying to read, but her mind refused to converge on the printed word. It kept straggling off into other channels, and she would recall herself with a start to find she had skimmed through half a dozen pages without taking in the meaning of a single line. At length this continual absentmindedness forced her to admit that the effort of literary assimilation was, for that evening at least, a hopeless failure. She looked at her watch. It was nearing midnight--in spite of her abstraction, the time had flown past unnoticed--yet she felt in no mood for sleep. Following another outbreak of blood-curdling fulmination from Terry, she laid her book down on her knees, clasped her hands behind her head, and decided to give her imagination the rein it was straining for. Her thoughts sped instantly to Storm. She strove to picture him in her mind's eye, and discovered to her surprise that she could form only the vaguest possible image. Little mannerisms of his, his swinging gait, snatches of his staccato conversation, vivid expressions he had invented--these were all the material she found to her hand. The complete design eluded her. Even the attempt to visualise his face resulted only in a mental blur. Being no psychologist, this disability irritated and puzzled her.