An ominous darkness brooded over all things as Green walked up the long avenue of Shale Court half-an-hour later. The storm had been long in, gathering, and he judged that he would yet have time to reach his destination before it broke. But it was nearer than he thought, and the first dull roar of its coming reached him soon after he had passed the gates. He shrugged his shoulders at the sound and hurried on, for he was in no mood to turn back. The business before him was one that could not be shirked, and the lines on his dark face showed unyielding determination as he went.

He was half-way up the drive when the first flash of lightning glimmered eerily across the heavy gloom. It was followed so swiftly by a burst of thunder that he realized that he had no time to spare if he hoped to escape the threatening deluge. He broke into a run, covering the ground with the ease of the practised athlete, elbows at sides and head up, going at an even pace which he knew he could maintain to the finish without distress.

But he was not destined to run to a finish. As he rounded a bend that gave him a view of the house in the distance, he suddenly heard a voice call to him from the deep shadow of the trees, and checking sharply he discerned a dim figure coming towards him across the grassy ride that bordered the road.

He diverted his course without a moment's thought, and went to meet it.

"Ah, how kind of you!" said Juliet. "And there's going to be such a downpour in a minute."

"What is the matter?" he said, her hand in his.

She was smiling a difficult smile. "Nothing very much. Not enough to warrant my extreme selfishness in stopping you. I have given my foot a stupid twist, that's all, and it doesn't like walking."

"Take my arm!" said Green.

She took it, her white face still bravely smiling. "Thank you, Mr.
Green."

"Lean hard!" he said.

She obeyed him, and he led her, limping, to the road, Columbus, the ever-faithful, trudging behind.

"It really is a shame," she said. "We shall both be drenched now."

He glanced at the threatening sky. "It may hold off for a bit yet. What were you doing?"

"I was coming to see you," she said.

"To see me!" His look came swiftly to her. "What about?"

"About Robin," she answered simply. "I wasn't in the car when it happened, but I heard all about it when Mrs. Fielding came in. Mr. Green, I hope you haven't been very hard on him."

Green was silent for a moment. "And you started straight off to come to the rescue?" he said then.

"Oh, I felt sure that he acted on impulse, not realizing. You can't judge him by ordinary standards. It isn't fair," pleaded Juliet. "There was probably some extenuating circumstance in the background—something we don't know about. I hope you haven't been very severe. You haven't, have you?"

Green began to smile. "You make me out an awful ogre," he said. "Is it my trade that does it? No, I haven't punished him at all. As you say, we must be fair, and I found he wasn't the person most to blame. Can you guess who was?"

"No," said Juliet.

"I thought not. Well, I have traced it to its source, and it lies—at your door."

"At mine!" ejaculated Juliet.

"At yours, yes. You've been too kind to him. It's just your way, isn't it? You spoil everybody." Again for an instant his look flashed over her. "With the result that Robin, not hampered by convention as are the rest of us, lies in wait on forbidden ground for a glimpse of his divinity. Being caught and roundly abused for it by his brother Jack, he naturally took offence and trouble ensued. That is the whole story."

"Oh, dear," said Juliet. "But surely that was very unnecessary of your brother Jack. He might have made allowances."

"My brother Jack often does unnecessary things," said Green drily. "And he never makes allowances for anyone but himself."

"And you have to bear the consequences!" Juliet's voice was quick with sympathy. "But that's too bad!"

"I'm used to it," said Green, and laughed. "How are you getting on?
Enjoying life at the Court?"

Juliet smiled. "Do you know—I am rather? They have been very good to me."

"So far," said Green. "Are you still on probation?"

"The week is up to-morrow," she told him.

"And you're staying on—of course?"

She looked at him. "Don't you want me to stay on?"

"You know my sentiments," said Green.

A sudden vivid flash rent the gloom over them, and Juliet caught her breath. There followed a burst of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

She tried to break into a hobbling run, but he held her back. "Better not. You'll only hurt yourself. It isn't raining yet. You're not nervous?"

She laughed a little, breathlessly. "I don't admit it. I should never dare to show the white feather in your presence. Oh, look at that!" She shrank in spite of herself as another intolerable flare darted across the sky.

"We're nearly in," said Green, but his words were drowned in such a volume of sound as made further speech impossible. He awoke to the fact that Juliet was clinging to his arm with both hands, and in a second his free hand was on the top of them holding them tightly.

The thunder rolled away, and a deeper darkness fell. Great drops of rain began to splash around them.

"Quick!" gasped Juliet. "We can't—possibly—reach the house now. There is an arbour—by the garden gate. Let's go there!"

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."

He made a quick gesture of protest. "Do you? Oh, I know a better name than that. But you don't want to hear it. I believe you are afraid of me. It sounds preposterous. But I believe you are."

Her hand stirred within his, but not as though seeking to escape. "No, I don't think so," she said, and in her voice was a sound as if laughter and tears were striving together for the mastery. "But I'm trying—so dreadfully hard—to be—discreet. I don't want you to let yourself go too far. It's so difficult—you don't know how difficult it is—to get back afterwards."

"Good heavens!" he said. "Don't you realize that I passed the turning-back stage long ago."

"Oh, I hope not!" she said quickly. "I hope not!"

"Then I am afraid you are doomed to disappointment," he said, with a touch of cynicism. "But I am sure you are far too sensible—discreet, I mean—to let that worry you. And anyway," he smiled abruptly, "I don't want you to be worried—just when you're having such a jolly time at the Court too."

"You're very sarcastic," said Juliet.

He laughed a little. "No. That's not me. It's only the armour in which I encase myself. I hope it doesn't offend you. I can always take it off. Only—I am not sure you'd like that any better."

He won his point. She smiled, though somewhat dubiously. And at length her hand gently freed itself from his.

"Well, I don't like hurting people," she said. "And I don't want to hurt you. You understand that, don't you?" There was pleading in her words.

"Yes, perfectly," he said.

She glanced at him, for his tone was baffling. "And you don't think me—quite heartless?"

He bent towards her. "No," he said, and though he smiled as in duty bound she caught a deep throb in his voice that pierced straight through her. "I love you all the better for it." Then, before she could find words to protest, "I say, I believe it's left off raining. Hadn't we better go while we can?"

She turned to look. A pale light was shining from the western sky. The storm was over. The raindrops glittered in the growing radiance. The whole earth seemed transformed. "Yes, let us go!" she said, and stepped down into a world of crystal clearness.

He followed her, his face uplifted to the scattering drops, moving with a free and faun-like spring that seemed to mark him as a being closely allied to Nature, curiously vital yet also curiously self-restrained.

She did not look at him again, but as they passed together through the wonderland which with every moment was growing to a more amazing brightness, she told herself that there was little of midsummer madness about this man's emotions. Jest as he might, she knew by instinct that he was vitally in earnest and she had a strange conviction that it was for the first time in his life. The certainty disquited her. Had she fled from one danger to another—she who only asked for peace?

But she reassured herself with the thought that he had held her against his heart, and he had not sought to take her. That forbearance of his gave him a greatness in her eyes to which no other man had ever attained. And gradually a sense of security to which she was little accustomed came about her heart and comforted her. She had warned him. Surely he understood!