A Damsel in Distress

The barn was both dark and dismal. In one of the dark corners an

intermittent dripping betrayed the presence of a gap in its ancient

roof. A rat scurried across the floor. The dripping stopped and

began again. George struck a match and looked at his watch. He was

early. Another ten minutes must elapse before he could hope for her

arrival. He sat down on a broken wagon which lay on its side

against one of the walls.

Depression returned. It was impossible to fight against it in this

beast of a barn. The place was like a sepulchre. No one but a fool

of a butler would have suggested it as a trysting-place. He

wondered irritably why places like this were allowed to get into

this condition. If people wanted a barn earnestly enough to take

the trouble of building one, why was it not worth while to keep the

thing in proper repair? Waste and futility! That was what it was.

That was what everything was, if you came down to it. Sitting here,

for instance, was a futile waste of time. She wouldn't come. There

were a dozen reasons why she should not come. So what was the use

of his courting rheumatism by waiting in this morgue of dead

agricultural ambitions? None whatever--George went on waiting.

And what an awful place to expect her to come to, if by some miracle

she did come--where she would be stifled by the smell of mouldy hay,

damped by raindrops and--reflected George gloomily as there was

another scurry and scutter along the unseen floor--gnawed by rats.

You could not expect a delicately-nurtured girl, accustomed to all

the comforts of a home, to be bright and sunny with a platoon of

rats crawling all over her. . . .

The grey oblong that was the doorway suddenly darkened.

"Mr. Bevan!"

George sprang up. At the sound of her voice every nerve in his body

danced in mad exhilaration. He was another man. Depression fell

from him like a garment. He perceived that he had misjudged all

sorts of things. The evening, for instance, was a splendid

evening--not one of those awful dry, baking evenings which make you

feel you can't breathe, but pleasantly moist and full of a

delightfully musical patter of rain. And the barn! He had been all

wrong about the barn. It was a great little place, comfortable,

airy, and cheerful. What could be more invigorating than that smell

of hay? Even the rats, he felt, must be pretty decent rats, when

you came to know them.

"I'm here!"

Maud advanced quickly. His eyes had grown accustomed to the murk,

and he could see her dimly. The smell of her damp raincoat came to

him like a breath of ozone. He could even see her eyes shining in

the darkness, so close was she to him.