Despite his eagerness that October morning, Paul did not then, all at once, write his play. He said that he and the Beggar had got to get to know each other. And before he got to the actual draft, he wrote down a few definite incidents in the later life of the Beggar-Man. He brought the manuscript round to Ursula one day the following Spring when the new flowers were out on Chanctonbury very much as they had been when they sprang into vivid flames of being before the newly-opened eyes of the blind Beggar on the hills of Galilee that he had loved so much. He brought it round to her very early, while the family at the cottage were still at breakfast, which did not perturb him at all.
After greetings, he looked across at Ursula. "Can you come for a long walk this morning?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
"At least, not a very long walk. I want you to come to that little wood on the crest of the Downs above Steyning—you know—and let me read this to you."
Mrs. Manning's eyes travelled from one to the other a little anxiously. Really, these two ... But perhaps this time ... Well, if the girl knew her own mind....
"All right," said Ursula. "I'll get a coat."
"Don't forget it's only Spring," said Mrs. Manning at the door. "Don't catch cold."
"We'll remember, mother," said Ursula, and they set out.
At the remembered spot, Paul spread a mackintosh on the ground. "There," he said, "sit down. I'm going to read to you. Do you mind?"
She smiled her own silent slow smile at him, and drew her knees up, and clasped her hands round them, and stared down at the sleepy little town nestling far below.