"No, no, no!!" cried Marjory. "It’s no use." She turned to him with pretty appeal. "Don’t ask me, will you?" Then she went on in a tone of middle-aged common-sense: "Besides, we can’t be married at once. In your stupid England, the parson has to ask the congregation three times whether they have any objection. As if they could n’t make up their minds the first time! and as if it was any of their business at all!" "Banns—! Hang!" said Jack, scratching his head. That helped him. "I know!" he cried, "Licence!" "Don’t ask me!" She caressed his coat-collar coaxingly. "You won’t ask me, will you? What is a licence?" "Well," said Jack, with an air of profound knowledge and experience, "You go to a Bishop, and he gives you a document, and then you go to the nearest church—and—and—there you are!" "I don’t believe you’re there at all," she said, pouting. She turned away in despair. "Oh, it’s no use!" But she turned back with new hope. "Do you know any Bishops?" "Not one," said Jack, ruefully. Her head rested on his shoulder, and made a prop for his. "It’s discouraging!" they both sighed, sinking on the seat in the Gazebo, and looking as woe-begone as the Babes in the Wood. Down came the rain, pattering on the leaves of the elm. The Eyesore had come back, hatless and in his shirt sleeves, and had executed a brief dance of delight over the three fish Jack had caught for him. He had only got back just in time to avert disaster, for Sempronius, seeing the Walk deserted, had been on the very point of raiding the fish. The Eyesore sat on his box and resumed his melancholy sport, resigned to the loss of his outer garment, oblivious of the rain, but keeping a wary eye on the cat. The Reverend Doctor Sternroyd emerged from his house. I say emerged, because it was a slow and difficult manoeuvre. He was loaded as usual. His green umbrella occupied his right arm, while his left encircled a number of ancient tomes; so he had to come through his door sideways and down his steps backwards, and the gate presented a new and complicated problem. Then he discovered it was raining, and, of course, he tried to open his umbrella while he was still under the arch of his gate. At the best of times the opening of that umbrella was a matter of diplomacy and patience. You did not open it just when you wanted to, but only when it was willing. In a wind it would open itself and turn itself inside out; but in a shower it needed coaxing. Its ribs all went in different directions and it required the greatest skill to induce anything approaching unanimity. The chances were that by the time you had got the umbrella open, the shower had ceased and the sun was shining; and as it was just as difficult to close it, you probably gave up, and resigned yourself to looking eccentric. The Reverend Doctor got inextricably mixed up with his books, his half-open umbrella, and the gate. He felt he must use strong language. "Tut, tut!" said he.