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Ross turned angrily. “You———”

“I have been revolving it in my head,” said George.

He brought the coffeepot forward heavily. Then gravely the big platter of pork and beans. Then sombrely the potatoes. Then profoundly the biscuits. “I been revolving it in my mind. There ain’t no use waitin’ any longer for Swengalley. Might as well eat now.”

From my excellent vantage-point on the couch I watched the progress of that meal. Ross muddled, glowering, disappointed; Étienne, eternally blandishing, attentive, ogling; Miss Adams nervous, picking at her food, hesitant about answering questions, almost hysterical; now and then the solid, flitting shadow of the cook, passing behind their backs like a Dreadnaught in a fog.

I used to own a clock which gurgled in its throat three minutes before it struck the hour. I know, therefore, the slow freight of Anticipation. For I have awakened at three in the morning, heard the clock gurgle and waited those three minutes for the three strokes I knew were to come. Alors. In Ross’s ranch house that night the slow freight of Climax whistled in the distance.

Étienne began it after supper. Miss Adams had suddenly displayed a lively interest in the kitchen layout and I could see her in there, chatting brightly at George—not with him—the while he ducked his head and rattled his pans.

“My fren’,” said Étienne, exhaling a large cloud