In her own room Ursula uncovered her picture and had a look at it. She read a little. Then she sat on awhile, staring out of the window. Then she got up, fetched her portfolio and looked through its contents. When she reached the little water-colour she had done to illustrate Paul's poem, she put it on one side--thereafter by itself on her mantelpiece. Then she went to bed. In the morning she announced the intention of taking a walk. Everyone placidly agreed, as they did from force of habit where Ursula was concerned, and her mother came to the gate with her and watched her away in her yellow jumper, with a green scarf and skirt. Mrs. Manning was very proud of her daughter. She did not ask where she was going, however. Paul, after a late breakfast, strolled out on to the terrace. He was turning over the phrases of his letter to Tressor when he saw the girl coming up the drive. He went to meet her. It crossed his mind that she might be bringing a message from her mother. "Hullo," he said, when he was within speaking distance. "Good morning. How are you?" "Very well," she said. "Busy?" "Not particularly," replied Paul ruefully. "I was just about to write a beastly letter." She looked him frankly in the face. "How's the poetry going?" she asked. He did not think to be surprised. "It's not going at all," he said. She nodded. They were standing still there, on the drive. She looked away from him, as if she had seen all she wanted, looking out over the park alive in the sun. "I've written nothing for ages," he went on impulsively. "I can't. And I can't read either." "Come for a walk," she said. "Now? With you? Where?" It was only afterwards that he realised that this was not the politest reply. "At once, with me, on the Downs," she replied smiling. His face lit up. He saw in a flash how good a walk with her would be. "Oh, good," he cried, "I'd love to. May I get a stick and a hat? Will you come in a moment?" "I'll wait here," she said. "Don't be long." "I won't be two minutes," he replied, and ran up the steps. She led the way, down the drive, past the lodge, up to the right, up a little path that skirted the hedges and ran through the woods at the foot of the great hill, and then up still more, by a winding track that serpentined out into the open downland at the top. The ring of Chanctonbury was away on their right; a dew-pond ringed with a stony beach just in front, its waters reflecting the blue of the autumn sky and ruffled with a wind from the sea. Before them they could see Cissbury in the distance and follow the coast line past Worthing, hid behind a down, to Shoreham, with Lancing Chapel set up above it, and Brighton. It was so clear to-day that the gleam of white on the cliffs beyond Rottingdean was distinctly visible.