From the balcony I watched
them out of sight. By-and-by, however, I spied a figure returning
alone by the towpath; and, concealing myself, heard young Romeo in
the courtyard carelessly demanding of the ostler the loan of a spade.
From behind my curtain I watched him as again he made his way up the
shore with the implement tucked under his arm. I waited in a
terrible suspense. Each minute seemed an hour. A thunderstorm
happening to break over the river at this juncture (as such things
do), the scene lacked no appropriate accessory. At length, between
two flashes of lightning, I perceived in the distance my two turtles
returning, and gave voice to my relief. They were walking side by
side, but no longer arm-in-arm. Young Romeo hung his head
dejectedly: and on a closer view the lady's garments not only dripped
with the storm but showed traces of earth to the waist. The rest
they kept to themselves. I say no more, save that after the
evening's performance (of 'All for Love') young Romeo came to me and
announced that his betrothal was at an end. They had discovered (as
he put it) some incompatibility of temper.
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