He had given in to a selfish impulse and shut himself into his room for some peace and quiet. He had stretched out on his bed and set one forearm over his eyes while his valet pottered about quietly, cleaning off the splashes of mud his boots had acquired during the dash from the carriage to the inn and spreading his coat over a chair to dry. Michael had neither slept nor relaxed fully. It was not the storm that was to blame, however. It was his conscience. Robert was abnormally fearful of storms among other things and had clung and whimpered throughout their ordeal in the carriage, refusing to be consoled or be passed to his nurse's arms. Had he fallen asleep in his bed in the next room despite the return of the storm? Was Georgette occupying herself quietly enough not to disturb her brother and not to drive the nurse to distraction? His daughter had uttered those ominous words—this is stupid! —a few hours ago in the carriage after closing her book and tossing it aside before gazing out at the scenery and commenting upon every cow and barn and church spire.
