It was hardly the morning she would have chosen for such a jaunt¹. A change was impending² in the weather. Fickle³ April seemed to be of opinion that the world thereabouts had already had too fair a taste of summer, and that the time had come for quite a different sort of thing. Heavy banks of cloud scudded⁴ across the sky, blown by a cold north-easterly wind, which at times almost amounted to a gale⁵. But Nora was heedless of the weather; her mood was in tune⁷ with the wind, wild and vagrant⁸. The chilly⁹ breezes blew her hair this way and that, she cared nothing. Now and then a splash of rain was dashed on her uncovered head; she paid no heed⁶. She walked rapidly, delighting in the sensation of striding swiftly through the open air, careless of all else. How far she walked, or how long, she did not know; she kept no count; one could walk some distance without quitting the grounds of Cloverlea; but even she awoke to the fact, at last, that she had better seek shelter, or else go home. The rain threatened to fall in earnest; without hat or jacket, or protection of any sort, she would soon be soaked to the skin.