Embrance pined for a little air, and was determined to walk, in spite of the wet. It was a long way; her umbrella was dripping and her ankle was aching sadly before she reached the corner of the street. In the distance a policeman was slowly pacing along, the pavement was slippery, and the road was shining with puddles. There was not a break in the leaden-coloured sky or a breath of wind to interfere with the steady downpour. Embrance’s umbrella had seen hard work; the rain pattered through the little holes in the silk; she had the greatest difficulty in keeping the book she carried out of the wet. Well, it was not far now, though the street was long. Number 11, number 12, number 13; that was the house with the door-knocker that Joan had made a sketch of (she said it was like her grandfather). Number 14. There was a quick step behind her, and another umbrella was walking side by side with her. [Illustration: “MR. HORACE MEADE.”] “Good morning. I have been waiting to speak to you. I am so glad that you are come at last.” The owner of the umbrella looked excited; his artistic eccentricity was to the fore; he held a scrap of grey paper in his left hand; his gaze was fixed on Embrance. She said no word of greeting, but dropped the dictionary that she had been guarding with such care. He picked it up for her. “Let me carry it.” “Thank you. I do not like to trouble you”—and the rain trickled down on to her gloves and cuffs as she held out her hand towards him. “Not at all,” said Horace, politely, as he pocketed the book, regardless of the mud. “The fact is, if you don’t mind listening, I’ve come to make an apology.” Embrance glanced at the piece of paper that he was beginning to unfold, and the blood rushed to her cheeks. “You see,” explained Horace, speaking very fast, “I don’t want to be a worry to you, only I should like you to know that this got put away with a heap of papers, and I only opened it last night. I hadn’t a notion yesterday that you had written to me. I wish I had. You are getting so wet. Will you let me hold my umbrella over you? It will be better so. Thank you,” as she murmured something that was not a refusal. She had nothing now to carry; she clasped her hands, and looked straight in front of her down the rainy street. “Why didn’t you tell me that you had written to me?” “I thought you had had the letter, and would rather not answer it.” “Why did you write at all?” “To explain my mistake,” said Embrance, confusedly. “Then you did make a mistake, and I was the sufferer?” With a flash, her dark eyes turned to his. The look of joy on his face brought peace and comfort to her. “I am sorry,” she began. “Are you?” he asked, tenderly. “Don’t be sorry on my account. If I had come to see you at once, would you have sent me away a second time, Embrance?” They had passed number 25, and were walking towards the City, unmindful of the rain. In their hearts was the brightest sunshine. “Would you, Embrance?”