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.
WINTER
DECEMBER
The rain which began the day after the Greys' visit to Plashers Mead went on almost without a break for a whole week. December with what it could bring of deadness, gloom, and moisture came drearily down on Wychford, and Pauline, as she sat high in her window-seat, lamented the interminable soak.
"I can't think why Guy hasn't been near the Rectory lately," she grumbled.