away the tears—now give me your promise that you will never be so foolish again.

Lucy.⁠I—I promise. It is silly of me—now I am all right.

Harold.⁠Giboulées d'Avril! The sun comes out once more, the shower is quite over.

Lucy.⁠Yes, quite over; you always are so kind. It is my fault entirely. I—I think my nerves must be a little upset, too.

Harold.⁠We shall make a nice couple, sha'n't we? if we are often going to behave like this! Now, are you quite calm?

Lucy.⁠Yes, quite.

Harold.⁠That's right, because I want you to listen patiently for a few minutes to what I am going to say; it is something I want to talk to you about very seriously. You won't interrupt me until I have quite finished, will you?

Lucy.⁠What is it? not that—no, I won't.

Harold.⁠You know we talked about—I mean it was arranged we should be married the beginning of July—wasn't it?

Lucy.⁠Yes.

Harold.⁠Well, I want to know if you would mind very much putting it off a little—quite a little—only till the autumn? I'll tell you why. Of course if you do mind very much, I sha'n't press it, but it's like this: the scene of my new book is, as you know, laid abroad. I have been trying to write it, but can't get on with it one little bit. I want some local colour. I thought I should be able to invent it, I find I can't. It is hampering and keeping me back terribly. And so—and so I thought if you didn't mind very much that—that if I were to go to France for—for six months or so—alone, that—in fact it would be the making of me. I have never had an opportunity before; it has always been grind, grind, grind, and if I am prevented from going