Slowly the turmoil abated.  The downpour lessened.  The storm passed.  And Juliet stirred.

“How—­disgraceful of me!” she murmured.  “I’m not generally so foolish as this.  But—­it was so very violent.”

“I know,” he said.  His hold slackened.  He let her go.  And then suddenly he stayed her.  He took her hand, and bending pressed it closely, burningly, to his lips.

She stood motionless, suffering him.  But in a moment, as he still held her, very gently she spoke.  “Mr. Green, please—­don’t be so terribly in earnest!  It’s too soon.  I warned you before.  You haven’t known me—­long enough.”

He stood up and faced her, her hand still in his.  A light was growing behind the storm-clouds, revealing his dark clean-cut features, and the look half humorous, half-tense, that rested upon them.

“Yes, I know you warned me,” he said rather jerkily.  “I quite realize that it’s my funeral—­not yours.  I shan’t ask you to be chief mourner either.  I’ve always considered that when a man makes a fool of himself over a woman it’s up to him to bear the consequences without asking her to share them.”

“But we’re not talking of—­funerals,” said Juliet.

“Aren’t we?” His hand tightened for a moment upon hers.  “I thought we were.  What is it then?”

She smiled at him with a whimsical sadness in the weird storm-light.  “I think there are a good many names for it,” she said.  “I call it midsummer madness myself.”

He made a quick gesture of protest.  “Do you?  Oh, I know a better name than that.  But you don’t want to hear it.  I believe you are afraid of me.  It sounds preposterous.  But I believe you are.”

Her hand stirred within his, but not as though seeking to escape.  “No, I don’t think so,” she said, and in her voice was a sound as if laughter and tears were striving together for the mastery.  “But I’m trying—­so dreadfully hard—­to be—­discreet.  I don’t want you to let yourself go too far.  It’s so difficult—­you don’t know how difficult it is—­to get back afterwards.”

“Good heavens!” he said.  “Don’t you realize that I passed the turning-back stage long ago.”

“Oh, I hope not!” she said quickly.  “I hope not!”

“Then I am afraid you are doomed to disappointment,” he said, with a touch of cynicism.  “But I am sure you are far too sensible—­discreet, I mean—­to let that worry you.  And anyway,” he smiled abruptly, “I don’t want you to be worried—­just when you’re having such a jolly time at the Court too.”

“You’re very sarcastic,” said Juliet.

He laughed a little.  “No.  That’s not me.  It’s only the armour in which I encase myself.  I hope it doesn’t offend you.  I can always take it off.  Only—­I am not sure you’d like that any better.”

He won his point.  She smiled, though somewhat dubiously.  And at length her hand gently freed itself from his.

“Well, I don’t like hurting people,” she said.  “And I don’t want to hurt you.  You understand that, don’t you?” There was pleading in her words.