He turned off the road on to a side-path that led to a shrubbery. The rush and roar of the coming rain was sweeping up from the sea. Juliet pressed forward. Again a jagged line of light gleamed before them. Again the thunder crashed. They found the little gate and the arbour beyond. "Thank goodness!" gasped Juliet. She stumbled at the step of the summer-house, and he thrust an arm forward to catch her. He almost lifted her into shelter. The darkness within was complete. She leaned upon him, trembling. "You're not hurt?" he said. "No, not hurt, only--shaken--and--and--stupid," she answered, on the verge of tears. His arm still held her. It closed about her, very surely, very steadily. He did not utter a word. The rain swept down in a torrent, as if the skies had opened. Great hail-stones beat upon the laurels around them with tropical violence. The noise of the downpour seemed vaster, more overwhelming, even than the thunder. Juliet was palpitating from head to foot. She leaned upon the supporting arm, her eyes closed against the leaping lightning, her two hands pressed hard upon her breast. Columbus crouched close to her, shivering. And ever the man's arm drew her nearer, nearer, till she felt the strong beating of his heart. The storm raged on about them, but they two stood, as it were, alone, wrapped at its very centre in a great silence. For minutes they neither moved nor spoke. Slowly the turmoil abated. The downpour lessened. The storm passed. And Juliet stirred. "How--disgraceful of me!" she murmured. "I'm not generally so foolish as this. But--it was so very violent." "I know," he said. His hold slackened. He let her go. And then suddenly he stayed her. He took her hand, and bending pressed it closely, burningly, to his lips. She stood motionless, suffering him. But in a moment, as he still held her, very gently she spoke. "Mr. Green, please--don't be so terribly in earnest! It's too soon. I warned you before. You haven't known me--long enough." He stood up and faced her, her hand still in his. A light was growing behind the storm-clouds, revealing his dark clean-cut features, and the look half humorous, half-tense, that rested upon them. "Yes, I know you warned me," he said rather jerkily. "I quite realize that it's my funeral--not yours. I shan't ask you to be chief mourner either. I've always considered that when a man makes a fool of himself over a woman it's up to him to bear the consequences without asking her to share them." "But we're not talking of--funerals," said Juliet. "Aren't we?" His hand tightened for a moment upon hers. "I thought we were. What is it then?" She smiled at him with a whimsical sadness in the weird storm-light. "I think there are a good many names for it," she said. "I call it midsummer madness myself."