He was going to say it, she felt it coming. He was going to say _depot_ instead of _station_. George always said _depot_ when they were in the country, and she couldn’t bear it. It was coming, it was coming; everything was predestined; all her life she had known this scene was on the way, sitting under the hot croup-kettle smell of the pine trees, blue thunder piling up on the skyline, poor adorable George mumbling away, and Mr. Martin watching them with his air of faint surprise. It was like the beginning of some terrible poem. Everything in life was a symbol of everything else. The slices of lemon lying at the bottom of the iced-tea jug, on a soft cloud of undissolved sugar, even they were a symbol of something.... “George!” she interrupted desperately. “I had the most terrible premonition. I felt that you were going to say _depot_.” “Why, yes, I was going to say, just about the time I’m ready to drive over----” For his own sake, for her sake, for Mr. Martin’s sake, George must be prevented. If he used that word, she would know that all this was foreordained, beyond help and hope. With a quick movement she pushed her glass of tea off the table; it cascaded onto George’s ankle. He paused in surprise. “I’m _so_ sorry. How careless of me, your nice white socks, look out, that little piece of ice is going down inside your shoe.” She felt that the guest’s eyes were upon her. He must have seen her do it. “Is that why they call it a tumbler?” he said. “Never mind,” said George cheerfully. “It feels fine. I wish it was down my neck.”