To her own ears, her voice seemed to come from some distant place--to sound infinitely thin and far away; but Asshlin seemed to observe nothing. He went forward obediently and drew the six long curtains. As the last was pulled into place Burke entered, and carefully laid two dishes upon the table. A moment later Clodagh took her seat. "What will you eat, Larry?" she said hurriedly. "Chicken? Ham?" Asshlin turned to her, as he in his turn took his place. "What will _you_ have?" he said. "I? Oh--anything! But talk, Larry! Tell me things! Let's--let's be gay!" Asshlin was busy cutting up the chicken. He did not hear the faintly hysterical note that underran her voice--the note of warning from a mind trying with panic-stricken haste to evade itself. He helped her to some chicken; and Burke, laying the plate before her, went in search of wine. She toyed for a moment or two with the food, making pretence to eat. At last Larry looked at her. "You're eating nothing. Aren't you hungry?" She started nervously. "No; I'm not hungry. I--I had a glass of milk in my room. I couldn't wait for dinner." She tried to laugh, as she told the falsehood. He accepted the explanation. "Then you must have a glass of wine now!" he said genially, as Burke re-entered with a dusty bottle of port. "Give me the bottle, Burke!" He took it from the old man's hands, and poured some wine into Clodagh's glass; and as he leant forward, he suddenly saw by the light of the candles that her eyes were wide and black, her face very white. "Clo, you're not feeling ill?" he asked, in quick concern. Clodagh put her hand to her face with a startled gesture. "No! Do I look ill? It's the storm. The storm has got on my nerves. We develop nerves in London, you know!" Again she attempted to laugh. Once more Asshlin accepted her explanation, as something he had no authority to question. "I want you to talk, Larry!" she added hurriedly. "I want you to talk. Say anything! Take me out of myself!" She raised her glass to her lips and drank some of the wine. It brought a faint tinge of colour to her cheeks, but only increased the bright darkness of her eyes. While Asshlin consumed his dinner, she sat very upright in her chair, sipping her wine from time to time or breaking small mouthfuls from her bread. At last, having hovered anxiously about her, Burke made bold to speak his thoughts. "Is it the way the chicken isn't nice, ma'am?" he ventured. She started, as she had started each time she had been directly addressed. "No, Burke! Oh no!" she said hastily. "The chicken is very nice. It's only that the storm has--has given me a headache." Burke shook his head sympathetically, as a sudden gale swept round the house. "'Tis lookin' for a bad night, sure enough!" he said, as he passed round the table with the next course.