She turned to him as if consulting him, but Nap's face was to the sky. "That is for you to decide," he said. "We might do it. The storm won't break at present." "It will be violent when it does," she said. He nodded. "It will." She quickened her steps instinctively, and he lengthened his stride. The smile had ceased to twitch his lips. "Have you decided?" he asked her suddenly, and his voice sounded almost stern. They were nearing the top of the hill. She paused, panting a little. "Yes. I will spend the night here." He gave her a glance of approval. "You are a wise woman." "I hope so," said Anne. "I must telegraph at once to Dimsdale and tell him not to expect me." Nap's glance fell away from her. He said nothing whatever. CHAPTER XII IN THE FACE OF THE GODS "Thank the gods, we are the only guests!" said Nap that evening, as they sat down to dine at the table at which they had lunched. The glare of a lurid sunset streamed across the sky and earth. There was a waiting stillness upon all things. It was the hush before the storm. An unwonted restlessness had taken possession of Anne. She did not echo his thanksgiving, an omission which he did not fail to note, but upon which he made no comment. It was in fact scarcely a place for any but day visitors, being some considerable distance from the beaten track. The dinner placed before them was not of a very tempting description, and Anne's appetite dwindled very rapidly. "You must eat something," urged Nap. "Satisfy your hunger with strawberries and cream." But Anne had no hunger to satisfy, and she presently rose from the table with something like a sigh of relief. They went into the drawing-room, a room smelling strongly of musk, and littered largely with furniture of every description. Nap opened wide a door-window that led into a miniature rosegarden. Beyond stretched the common, every detail standing out with marvellous vividness in the weird storm-light. "St. Christopher!" he murmured softly. "We are going to catch it." Anne sat down in a low chair near him, gazing forth in silence, her chin on her hand. He turned a little and looked down at her, and thus some minutes slipped away, the man as tensely still as the awe-stricken world without, the woman deep in thought. He moved at last with a curious gesture as if he freed and restrained himself by the same action. "Why don't you think out loud?" he said. She raised her eyes for a moment. "I was thinking of my husband," she said. He made a sharp movement--a movement that was almost fierce--and again seemed to take a fresh grip upon himself. His black brows met above his brooding eyes. "Can't you leave him out of the reckoning for this one night?" he asked. "I think not," she answered quietly. He turned his face to the sinking sun. It shone like a smouldering furnace behind bars of inky cloud. "You told me once," he said, speaking with obvious constraint, "that you did not think you would ever live with him again."