And now, through these wonderful Spring weeks, these two were continually together. The Galleons had, at first, been inclined to consider Clare's obvious preference for Peter as the simplest desire to be part of a general rather heady enthusiasm. “Clare loves little movements....” And Peter, throughout this Spring was a little movement. The weeks went on, and Clare was not herself--silent, absorbed, almost morose. One day she asked Alice Galleon a number of questions about Peter, and, after that, resolutely avoided speaking of him. “Of course,” Alice said to Bobby--“Dr. Rossiter will let her marry any one she likes. She'll have plenty of money and Peter's going to have a great career. After all it may be the best thing.” Bobby shook his head. “They're both egoists,” he said. “Peter because he's never had anything he wanted and Clare because she's always had everything ... it won't do.” But, after all, when May gave place to burning June, Bobby and Alice were inevitably drawn into that romance. They yielded to an atmosphere that both, by temperament, were too sentimental to resist. Nearer and nearer was coming that intoxicating moment of Peter's final plunge, and Clare--beautiful, these weeks, with all the excitement of the wonderful episode--saw him as a young god who had leapt upon a submissive London and conquered it. Mrs. Rossiter and Mrs. Galleon played waiting chorus. Mrs. Launce from her little house in Westminster, was, as usual, glowing with a piece of other people's happiness. Bobby and Alice had surrendered to the atmosphere. All were, of course, silent--until the word is spoken no movement must be made--the little god is so easily alarmed. At last towards the close of this hot June, Mrs. Launce proposed to Clare a week-end at her Sussex cottage by the sea. She also told Peter that she could put him up if he chose to come down at the same time. What could be more delightful in this weather? “Dear Clare, only the tiniest cottage as you know--no one else unless Peter Westcott happens to come down--I suggested it, and you can see the sea from your window and there's a common and a donkey, and you can roll in the sand--” Mrs. Launce, when she was very happy betrayed her French descent by the delightful way that she rolled her r's. “Not a soul anywhere near--we can bathe all day.” Clare would love to come so strangely enough would Peter--“The 5.30 train then--Saturday....” Dear Mrs. Launce in her bonnet and blue silk! Clare had never thought her so entirely delightful! Peter, of course, plainly understood the things that dear Mrs. Launce intended. His confidence in her had been, in no way, misplaced--she loved a wedding and was the only person in the world who could bring to its making so fine a compound of sentiment and common sense. She frankly loved it all and though, at the moment, occupied with the work of at least a dozen women, and with a family that needed her most earnest care, she hastened to assist the Idyll.