At her gate she assumed merriment; a transparent, fraudulent kind of mirth. Said laughingly, one hand on the latch, the other ready to place in his:
"And now, Mr. Prophet, what of the morrow? Think you will it hail, rain, wind or snow?"
It was not infectious, that merriment of hers. She had fallen on the first subject in Valapuk: the weather. Staple of English intercourse, how many can deny it a debt of gratitude? Common ground—a national heritage whereon we can disport ourselves at ease.
"Rain, I am afraid." He looked round. "Those banks of clouds augur badly."
"You are not a comforting sort of prophet! Assumption of your correctness means confinement to the house all day."
"Yes."
He looked at her as he answered. The glance made it hardly a laconic reply.... She stretched out her hand. With the light in her forget-me-not eyes full on, said:
"Good-bye."
Taking her hand—his retention of it was for a period considerably longer than is considered quite good form in Mayfair—he asked:
"If a wet day—to-morrow, you know—I shall not see you at all, shall I?"