But it was not. When he woke, the day was radiant. A guileless sky
denied its misdemeanour merrily. Mrs. Kemp, in clattering the china,
asked him "how he lay last night." He thanked her, and took a mental
note of the locution, inquiring in his turn when the rain had ceased.
For answer she snorted "Rain?" and frowned reproof at the sunshine, and
he attributed her manner to crops.
His pouch was empty. She told him that tobacco could be obtained at the
grocer's; so he went across the road presently and bought some at a
little shop that proclaimed itself "Renowned for its breakfast-eggs,"
and "Celebrated for its bacon." As he came out, a woman passed him,
laden with a canvas, and a sketching box, a camp-stool, and what looked
like a bunch of rods. She was pale and slight. He saw that she was
deformed as he hurried by. He didn't take much notice of her.
A chair had been put back in the shade of the boughs, and he waited
feverishly where it was well in view. Soon a girl strolled down the
path between the roses. She wore a white frock, and had a book in her
hand. Her face dazzled him; his heart leapt to greet her. She entered
the field, and sat down under the tree. The photograph had come to life.
He leant, gazing at her, unnoticed.