storm poured down with sudden violence, and they drew
further back into the summer-house. The side of the tent from which they
had emerged still remained open, the rain streaming down between their
eyes and the lighted interior of the marquee like a tissue of glass
threads, the brilliant forms of the dancers passing and repassing behind
the watery screen, as if they were people in an enchanted submarine
palace.

'How happy they are!' said Paula. 'They don't even know that it is
raining. I am so glad that my aunt had the tent lined; otherwise such a
downpour would have gone clean through it.'

The thunder-storm showed no symptoms of abatement, and the music and
dancing went on more merrily than ever.

'We cannot go in,' said Somerset. 'And we cannot shout for umbrellas. We
will stay till it is over, will we not?'

'Yes,' she said, 'if you care to. Ah!'

'What is it?'

'Only a big drop came upon my head.'

'Let us stand further in.'

Her hand was hanging by her side, and Somerset's was close by. He took
it, and she did not draw it away. Thus they stood a long while, the rain
hissing down upon the grass-plot, and not a soul being visible outside
the dancing-tent save themselves.

'May I call you Paula?' asked he.

There was no answer.

'May I?' he repeated.

'Yes, occasionally,' she murmured.

'Dear Paula!--may I call you that?'

'O no--not yet.'

'But you know I love you?'

'Yes,' she whispered.

'And shall I love you always?'

'If you wish to.'

'And will you love me?'

Paula did not reply.

'Will you, Paula?' he repeated.

'You may love me.'

'But don't you love me in return?'

'I love you to love me.'

'Won't you say anything more explicit?'

'I would rather not.'

Somerset emitted half a sigh: he wished she had been more demonstrative,
yet felt that this passive way of assenting was as much as he could hope
for. Had there been anything cold in her passivity he might have
felt repressed; but her stillness suggested the stillness of motion
imperceptible from its intensity.

'We must go in,' said she. 'The rain is almost over, and there is no
longer any excuse for this.'

Somerset bent his lips toward hers. 'No,' said the fair Puritan
decisively.

'Why not?' he asked.

'Nobody ever has.'

'But!--' expostulated Somerset.

'To everything there is a season, and the season for this is not just
now,' she answered, walking away.

They crossed the wet and glistening lawn, stepp