Pauline was talking to Margaret in the bay window. "Do you remember," she was saying, "when Richard came to look at Plashers Mead and we pretended he was going to take it?" Margaret frowned at her for answer; but for Guy the afternoon so lately perfected was spoiled again; and when they were gone, all the evening he glowered at phantom Richards who, whether Adonises or Calibans, were all equally obnoxious and more than obnoxious, positively minatory. Next day he felt he had no heart to make an excuse to visit the Rectory; and he was drearily eating some of the cakes of the tea-party when Mr. Brydone and Mr. Willsher paid him their first call. Guy did not think they would appreciate the empty rooms, however eloquently he narrated their future glories; so he led his visitors forthwith to the cakes, listening to the talk of trout and jack. After a while he asked with an elaborate indifference if either of them had lately been round to the Rectory. "Too clever for me," said Brydone, shaking his head. "Besides, Pauline kicked up a fuss a fortnight ago because we asked if we could have the otter-meet in their paddock." "They were never sporting, those Rectory kids," said Willsher, gloomily. "Never," his friend agreed, shaking his head. "Do you remember when Margaret egged on young Richard Ford to punch your head because your old terrier chivied the Greys' cat round the churchyard?" "I punched _his_ head, I remember," said Willsher in wrathful reminiscence. "Does Richard Ford live here?" Guy asked. "His father's the Vicar of Little Fairfield, the next parish, you know. Richard's gone to India. He's an engineer, awfully nice chap and head over heels in love with the fair Margaret. I believe there's a sort of engagement." In that moment by the lightening of his heart Guy knew that he was in love with Pauline. Outside the November night hung humid and oppressive. "I thought we should get it soon," said Willsher, and as the two friends vanished in the mazy garden Guy, looking up, felt rain falling softly yet with gathering intensity. He stood for a while in his doorway, held by the whispering blackness. Then suddenly in a rapture of realization he slammed the door and, singing at the top of his voice, marched about the hall. Once upon a time "to-morrow" had been wont to drowse him; now the word sounded upon his imagination like a golden trumpet. WINTER DECEMBER The rain which began the day after the Greys' visit to Plashers Mead went on almost without a break for a whole week. December with what it could bring of deadness, gloom, and moisture came drearily down on Wychford, and Pauline, as she sat high in her window-seat, lamented the interminable soak. "I can't think why Guy hasn't been near the Rectory lately," she grumbled. "I expect he's tired of us," said Margaret. "You don't really think so," Pauline contradicted. "You're much, much, _much_ too conceited to think so really." Margaret laughed.