But perhaps kind Jupiter would send rain, and make the murdering of Shakespeare an impossibility.

Now and then he tapped his barometer, which for some days had hovered about "change," the sky meanwhile being clouded.

On the eve of Midsummer Day there was every sign of unseasonable weather.
Dymchurch told himself, with a certain persistency, that he was glad.
Yet the morrow broke fair, and at mid-day was steadily bright.
Throughout the morning, Dymchurch held himself at remorseless study, and was rewarded by the approval of his conscience; whence, perhaps, the cheerfulness of resignation with which he made ready to keep his engagement at the Surrey house.

With a half smile on his meditative face, he went out into the sunshine.

He was thinking of Rosalind in Arden.
Lord Honeybourne and he had been schoolfellows; they were together at Oxford, but not in the same set, for Dymchurch read, and the other ostentatiously idled.