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!”