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, stepped under the tent and parted. She vanished, he did not know whither; and, standing with his gaze fixed on the dancers, the young man waited, till, being in no mood to join them, he went slowly through the artificial passage lined with flowers, and entered the drawing room. Mrs. Goodman was there, bidding good-night to the early goers, and Paula was just behind her, apparently in her usual mood. His parting with her was quite formal, but that he did not mind, for her colour rose decidedly higher as he approached, and the light in her eyes was like the ray of a diamond. When he reached the door he found that his brougham from the Quantock Arms, which had been waiting more than an hour, could not be heard of. That vagrancy of spirit which love induces would not permit him to wait; and, leaving word that the man was to follow him when he returned, he went past the glare of carriage-lamps ranked in the ward, and under the outer arch. The night was now clear and beautiful, and he strolled along his way full of mysterious elation till the vehicle overtook him, and he got in.