"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.