And it rained, it rained.
Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn.

Elgar's animation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his miserable night, eared little to converse, and would gladly have been alone.

A midday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them somewhat, and they sat down to smoke in their bedroom.

It rained harder than ever; from the window they could see the old tower on the crag smitten with white scud.
"Come now," said Mallard, forcing himself to take a livelier tone, "tell me about those projects of yours.

Are you serious in your idea of writing ?" "Perfectly serious." "And what are you going to write ?" "That I haven't quite determined.