She paddled through barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under the outer door. She was afraid. Then something washed against her, something twined under her foot.

It was the riding whip. On the table were the rug and the cushion and the parcel from the gig.

He had come home.

“Tom!” she called, afraid of her own voice.

She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound. Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters.

“Tom!” she cried, standing in her nightdress with the candle, calling into the darkness and the flood out of the doorway.

“Tom! Tom!”

And she listened.