Ursula Manning stared out at the rods of rain. Chanctonbury Ring was all but blotted out; she could just see the crown of beeches when the mists were blown aside for a few moments, and that was all. The woods below stood heavy and motionless, and the fields between them and the cottage lay stretched out, drinking it in. It had been a hot dry summer, and the whole world was rejoicing in the rain. That decided Ursula. She turned back into the bedroom, opened a wardrobe, and took out an old tweed skirt and jumper. Then she took off most of her clothes and assumed these. She let down her hair, twisted it into a long black plait, tied it firmly, and swung the heavy mass over her shoulder with a defiant jerk. Then, bareheaded, she went downstairs humming a little song, and selected a stick in the hall. She looked about eighteen, dressed so. Her mother came out of the sitting-room. "Ursula," she cried, "you're not going out!" "Yes, mother, I am. Why not? The rain's heavenly, and the woods have spread out their hands to it. And I want to get soaked." The elder lady stood irresolute, a ludicrous expression of dismay in her face. The girl looked at her and laughed. "Oh, mother," she cried, "say it if it's any help!" Mrs. Manning, at that, smiled ruefully. "Ursula," she said, "it's all very well, but you are trying. You'll probably catch your death of cold." Ursula opened the door and stepped into the porch. She looked up into the leaden sky and down at the runnels of water on either side of the little garden path to the gate. Then she glanced back at her mother, smiled at her, waved her hand, and stepped into the downpour without a word. Her mother gave a little scream. "Ursula! Where's your mac.?" The muffled click of the latch at the gate answered her. It opened into a little lane that ran down on the left to a main road and up on the right towards the woods below Chanctonbury. Up this then, she went, swinging her stick, swinging out. The rain fell steadily around and upon her, and ever and again she lifted her face to it and smiled slowly to herself at the kiss and sting of it. In a little the winding track became a mere footpath and debouched into an old chalk-quarry, cut from the side of the hill, fringed with immense beech-trees and an occasional oak. The girl ran a few steps up a sodden low bank and stood for a moment looking down into the great bowl. A continual patter and sough of rain came up to her, though here, under the giant trees, less of the actual downpour reached her. The white chalk shone through the misty air. A miniature torrent poured as a little waterfall over the far brink and splashed below on to bushes and brambles. A warm, rich, wet fragrance rose all about her, and every living green thing seemed stretched out and motionless in an utter ecstasy of enjoyment.