Evidently he intended going away. A sudden dread of being alone filled her. “Wait!” she cried involuntarily. “Where are you going?”
He halted and looked back at her, an odd smile on his face.
“Oh!” She could not analyze the smile on his face, but in it she thought she detected something subtle—untruthfulness perhaps. She glanced at the tarpaulin and from it to his eyes, holding her gaze steadily.
“You are going to sleep in the open,” she said.
He caught the accusation in her eyes and his face reddened.
“Well,” he admitted, “I’ve done it before.”
“Perhaps,” she said, a little doubtfully. “But I do not care to feel that I am driving you out into the storm. You might catch cold and die. And I should not want to think that I was responsible for your death.”
“A little wetting wouldn’t hurt me.” He looked at her appraisingly, a glint of sympathy in his eyes. Standing there, framed in the darkness, the flickering light from the candle on his strong, grave face, he made a picture that, she felt, she would not soon forget.
“I reckon you ain’t afraid to stay here alone, ma’am,” he said.