"Yes, Peter."

Then suddenly before he could move towards her a storm that had been creeping upon them, burst over their heads. Five minutes ago there had been no sign of anything but the finest weather, but, in a moment the black clouds had rolled up and the thunder broke, clashing upon the world. The sea had vanished.

"We must run for it," cried Peter, raising his voice against the storm.

"That cottage over there--it's the only place."

They ran. The common was black now--the rain drove hissing, against the soil, the air was hot with the faint sulphur smell.

Peter flung himself upon the cottage door and Clare followed him in. For a moment they stood, breathless. Then Peter, conscious only that Clare was beside him, wild with the excitement of the storm, caught her, held her for a moment away from him, breathed the thunder that was about them all, and then kissed her mouth, wet with the rain.

She clung to him, white, breathless, her head on his shoulder.

"Why, you're not frightened?" The sense of her helplessness filled him with a delicious vigour. The way that her hand pressed in upon his shoulder exalted him. Her wet golden hair brushed his cheek. Then he remembered that they had invaded the cottage. For the first time it occurred to him that their first embrace might have been observed; he turned around.

The room was filthy, a huge black fire-place occupied most of it, the floor was littered with pieces of paper, of vegetables and a disagreeable smell protested against the closed and dirty windows. At first it seemed that this place was empty and then, with a start, he was aware that two eyes were watching them. The thunder pealed above them, the rain lashed the roof and ran streaming from the eaves; the cottage was dark; but he saw in a chair, a bundle of rags from which those eyes were staring.

Clare gave a little cry; an old woman with a fallen chin and a face like yellow parchment sat huddled in the chair.

Peter spoke to her. "I hope you don't mind our taking shelter here, whilst the storm passes." She had seen them embrace; it made him uncomfortable, but the storm was passing away, already the thunder was more distant.

The old woman made no reply, only her eyes glared at them. Peter put his hand in Clare's--"It's all right; I think the old thing's deaf and dumb and blind--look, the storm's passing--there's a bit of blue sky. Isn't it odd an old thing like that..."

Clare, shuddered a little. "I don't like it--she's horrid--this place is so dirty. I believe the rain's stopped."

They opened the door and the earth met them, good and sweet, after the shower. The sky was breaking, the mists were leaving the sea and as the storm vanished, the sun, dipping towards the horizon flung upon the blue a fleet of tiny golden clouds.

Peter bent down to the old woman.

"Thank you," he said, "for giving us shelter." He placed a shilling on her lap.

"She's quite deaf and blind," he said. "Poor old thing!"

They closed the door behind them and passed down a little path to the seashore. Here wonders met them. The sand, wet with the recent storm catching all the colours of the sky shone with mother of pearl--here a pool of blue, there the fleet of golden clouds.

It stretched on every side of them, blazing with colour. Behind them the common, sinking now into the dull light of evening.

They stood, little pigmies, on that vast painted floor. Before them the breeze, blowing back the waves into the sun again turned the spray to gold.

Tiny figures, in all this glory, they embraced. In all the world they seemed the only living thing....

III

They had their witness. The old woman who lived in the heart of those black trees, was deaf and dumb indeed, but her eyes were alive in her fading and wrinkled body.

When the door had closed she rose slowly from her chair, and her face was wrinkled with the passion of the hatred that her old soul was feeling.

What did they mean, those two, coming there and haunting her with their youth and strength and love. Kissing there before her as though she were already dead--she to whom kisses were only bitter memories.

Her face worked with fury--she hobbled, painfully, to the door and opened it.

Below her, on a floor of gold, two black figures stood together.

Gazing at them she raised her thin and trembling hand; she flung with a passionate, furious gesture, something from her.

A small silver coin glittered in the air, whistled for a moment and fell.

CHAPTER IV

THE ROUNDABOUT

I

Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon sat solemnly, with the majesty of spreading skirts and Sunday Best hats, in the little drawing-room of The Roundabout, awaiting the return from the honeymoon.

The Roundabout is the name that Peter has given to the little house in Dorset Street, Chelsea, that he has chosen to live in with his bride.

High spirits lead to nicknames and Peter was in the very highest of spirits when he took the house. The name alluded both to the shape--round bow-windowed like--fat bulging little walls, lemon-coloured, and to the kind of life that Peter intended to lead. All was to be Happiness. Life is challenged with all the high spirits of a truly happy ceremony.

It is indeed a tiny house--tiny hall, tiny stairs, tiny rooms but quaint with a little tumble-down orchard behind it and that strange painted house that old mad Miss Anderson lives in on the other side of the orchard. Such a quiet little street too ... a line of the gravest trees, cobbles with only the most occasional cart and a little church with a sleepy bell at the farthest end ... all was to be Happiness.

Wedding presents--there had been six hundred or so--filled the rooms.

People had, on the whole, been sensible, had given the right thing. The little drawing-room with its grey wall-paper, roses in blue jars, its two pictures--Velasquez' Maria Theresa in an old silver frame and Rembrandt's Night Watch--was pleasant, but overwhelmed now by the presence of these two enormous ladies. The evening sun, flooding it all with yellow light, was impertinent enough to blind the eyes of Mrs.

Rossiter. She rose and moved slowly to draw down the blinds. A little silver clock struck half-past four.

"They must soon be here," said Mrs. Galleon gloomily. Her gloom was happy and comfortable. She was making the very most of a pleasant business with the greatest satisfaction in the world. She had done exactly the same at Bobby's wedding, and, in her heavy, determined way she would do the same again before she died. Alice Galleon would be there in a moment, meantime the two ladies, without moving in their chairs, flung sentences across at one another and smoothed their silk skirts with their white plump hands.

"It's not really a healthy house--"

"No--with the orchard--and it's much too small--"

"Poor dears, hope they'll be happy. But one can't help feeling, Jane dear, that it was a little rash of you ... your only girl ... and one knows so little about Mr. Westcott, really--"

"Well, your own Bobby vouched for him. He'd known him at school after all, and we all know how cautious Bobby is about people--besides, Emma, no one could have received him more warmly--"

"Yes--Oh! of course ... but still, having no family--coming out of nowhere, so to speak--"

"Well, it's to be hoped they'll get on. I must say that Clare will miss her home terribly. It takes a lot to make up for that--And her father so devoted too...."

"Yes, we must make the best of it."

The sun's light faded from the room--the clock and the pictures stood out sharply against the gathering dusk. Two ladies filled the room with their shadows and the little fire clicked and rattled behind the murmuring voices.

II

Alice Galleon burst in upon them. "What! Not arrived yet! the train must be dreadfully late. Lights! Lights! No, don't you move, mother!"