They accepted his recital with, on Parish’s part, rather too eager alacrity. Lunch on the whole, was an uncomfortable affair. Something had gone wrong with the relationship of the three men. Norman Cubitt, who was acutely perceptive in such matters, felt that the party had divided into two, with Parish and himself on one side of an intangible barrier, and Watchman on the other. Cubitt had no wish to side, however, vaguely, with Parish against Watchman. He began to make overtures, but they sounded unlikely and only served to emphasize his own discomfort. Watchman answered with the courtesy of an acquaintance. By the time they had reached the cheese, complete silence had overcome them.

They did not linger for their usual post-prandial smoke. Cubitt said he wanted to get down to the jetty for his afternoon sketch, Parish said he was going to sleep, Watchman, murmuring something about writing a letter, disappeared upstairs.

They did not see each other again until the evening when they met in the private taproom for their usual cocktail. The fishing boats had come in, and at first the bar was fairly full. The three friends joined in local conversation and were not thrown upon their own resources until the evening meal which they took together in the ingle-nook. The last drinker went out saying that there was a storm hanging about, and that the air was unnaturally heavy. On his departure complete silence fell upon the three men. Parish made one or two halfhearted attemps to break it but it was no good, they had nothing to say to each other. They finished their meal and Watchman began to fill his pipe.

‘What’s that?’ said Parish suddenly. ‘Listen!’

‘High tide,’ said Watchman. ‘It’s the surf breaking on Coombe Rock.’

‘No, it’s not. Listen.’

And into the silence came a vague gigantic rumble.

‘Isn’t it thunder?’ asked Parish.

The others listened for a moment but made no answer.

‘What a climate!’ added Parish.

The village outside the inn seemed very quiet. The evening air was sultry. No breath of wind stirred the curtains at the open windows. When, in a minute or two, somebody walked round the building, the footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. Another and more imperative muttering broke the quiet.

Cubitt said nervously:

‘It’s as if a giant, miles away on Dartmoor, was shaking an iron tray.’

‘That’s exactly how they work thunder in the business,’ volunteered Parish.

‘The business,’ Watchman said with violent irritation. ‘What business? Is there only one business?’

‘What the hell’s gone wrong with you?’ asked Parish.

‘Nothing. The atmosphere,’ said Watchman.

‘I hate thunder-storms,’ said Cubitt quickly. ‘They make me feel as if all my nerves were on the surface. A loathsome feeling.’

‘I rather like them,’ said Watchman.

‘And that’s the end of that conversation,’ said Parish with a glance at Cubitt.

Watchman got up and moved into the window. Mrs Ives came in with a tray.