The taproom door opened slowly. There, on the threshold, stood the Hon. Violet Darragh, dripping like a soused hen. Her cotton dress was gummed to her person with such precision that it might as well have melted. Her curls were flattened into streaks, and from the brim of her hat poured little rivers that rushed together at the base of her neck, and, taking the way of least resistance, streamed centrally to her waist where they deployed and ran divergently to the floor. With one hand she held a canvas hold-all, with the other a piece of paper that still bore streaks of cobalt-blue and veridian across its pulpy surface. She might have been an illustration from one of the more Rabelaisian pages of La Vie Parisienne.

‘My dear Miss Darragh!’ ejaculated Watchman.

‘Ah, look at me!’ said Miss Darragh. ‘What a pickle I’m in, and me picture ruined. I was determined to finish it and I stayed on till the thunder and lightning drove me away in terror of me life, and when I emerged from the tunnel didn’t it break over me like the entire contents of the ocean. Well, I’ll go up now and change, for I must look a terrible old sight.’

She glanced down at herself, gasped, cast a comical glance at the three men, and bolted.

Will Pomeroy and two companions entered the Public from the street door. They wore oilskin hats and coats, and their boots squelched on the floor-boards. Will went into the bar and served out drinks. Parish leant over the private bar and gave them good-evening.

‘You seem to have caught it in the neck,’ he observed.

‘That’s right, Mr Parish,’ said Will. ‘She’s a proper masterpiece. The surface water’ll be pouring through the tunnel if she keeps going at this gait. Here you are chaps, I’m going to change.’

He went through the Private into the house, leaving a wet trail behind him. They heard him at the telephone in the passage. He had left the door open and his voice carried above the sound of the storm.

‘That you, Dessy? Dessy, this storm’s a terror. You’d better not drive that old car over tonight. Tunnel’ll be a running stream. It’s not safe.’

Watchman began to whistle under his breath. Abel returned and took Will’s place in the bar.

‘I’d walk over myself,’ Will was saying, ‘only I can’t leave father single-handed. We’ll have a crowd in, likely, with this weather.’

‘I’m going to have a drink,’ said Watchman suddenly.

‘Walk?’ said Will. ‘You’re not scared of lightning, then. Good enough, and nobody better pleased than I am. I’ll lend you a sweater and, Dessy, you’d better warn them you’ll likely stay the night. Why not? So I do, then and you’ll find it out, my dear. I’ll come a fetch along the way to meet you.’