The Channel Islands, the French Coast, Kent and London
--those were from common knowledge our most frequently
recurring topics. Both host and hostess, that was easy
to see, were bent upon beguiling the hours of their rather
dark-humored guest. But the howling gale outside was
stronger than their good intentions. It was not very long
before the conversation got around--reverted, so it
seemed--to stories of storms, of being lost, of nearly
freezing. The boys were sitting with wide and eager eyes,
afraid they might be sent to bed before the feast of
yarns was over. I told one or two of my most thrilling
escapes, the host contributed a few more, and even the
hostess had had an experience, driving on top of a railroad
track for several miles, I believe, with a train, snowbound,
behind her. I leaned over. "Mrs. ---," I said, "do not
try to dissuade me. I am sorry to say it, but it is
useless. I am bound to go." "Well," she said, "I wish
you would not." "Thanks," I replied and looked at my
watch. It was two o'clock. "There is only one thing wrong
with coming to have tea in this home," I continued and
smiled; "it is so hard to say good-bye.
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