‘We cannot go in,’ said Somerset. ‘And we cannot shout for umbrellas. We will stay till it is over, will we not?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you care to. Ah!’
‘What is it?’
‘Only a big drop came upon my head.’
‘Let us stand further in.’
Her hand was hanging by her side, and Somerset’s was close by. He took it, and she did not draw it away. Thus they stood a long while, the rain hissing down upon the grass-plot, and not a soul being visible outside the dancing-tent save themselves.
‘May I call you Paula?’ asked he.
There was no answer.
‘May I?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, occasionally,’ she murmured.