Robert Audley took the thunder and lightning with the same composure
with which he accepted all the other ills of life. He lay on a sofa in
the sitting-room, ostensibly reading the five-days-old Chelmsford paper,
and regaling himself occasionally with a few sips from a large tumbler
of cold punch. But the storm had quite a different effect upon George
Talboys. His friend was startled when he looked at the young man's white
face as he sat opposite the open window listening to the thunder, and
staring at the black sky, rent every now and then by forked streaks of
steel-blue lightning.

"George," said Robert, after watching him for some time, "are you
frightened of the lightning?"

"No," he answered, curtly.

"But, dear boy, some of the most courageous men have been frightened of
it. It is scarcely to be called a fear: it is constitutional. I am sure
you are frightened of it."

"No, I am not."

"But, George, if you could see yourself, white and haggard, with your
great hollow eyes staring out at the sky as if they were fixed upon a
ghost. I tell you I know that you are frightened."

"And I tell you that I am not."

"George Talboys, you are not only afraid of the lightning, but you are
savage with yourself for being afraid, and with me for telling you of
your fear."