“By Jove, child, you look done up. I’m glad you’re not angry, though. You wouldn’t laugh if you were angry, would you? Here is a fiacre.” He hailed the approaching vehicle; the cocher’s hat and cape, the roof of the cab, the horse’s waterproof covering glistened with rain in the dying light.
“You are very, very kind,” Hilda said, rather gravely now, as they stood side by side on the curb while the fiacre rattled up to them.
“I always intend to be kind, Hilda, if you will let me. Jump in.” He followed her, slamming the door with relief, and depositing the two dripping umbrellas in a corner.
“You must be drenched,” said Hilda solemnly.
“Imitation is the sincerest flattery, I believe; your fondness for drenchings inspired me. You are not one bit angry, then? You see I ask you no questions.”
“Angry? It was too good of you!” Her voice was still meditative.
“I am much relieved that you should say so. I was only conscious of guilt.”
“About an hour.”
“And it was pouring!”