"I'm afraid—it—it is going to rain," he says.
In another minute it is raining. Yorke takes the rug in both hands, and deftly wraps it round Leslie.
"Oh, no, please," she says, and she glances behind her. "Give it to him—Mr. Temple."
"It would be more than my life is worth," he says. "I dare not offer it to him. Please let me fasten it. How shall I? Give me a hairpin!"
"You must hold the horses, then," she says.
"I can see one sticking out," he says.
"Well, take it," she responds, innocently and all unconsciously, for she is thinking of her driving far more than the rain or the rug or anything else.
He looks at her intent and absorbed face, and puts up his hand and draws the hairpin from its soft and silken nest, and she, unheeding, does not know that his hand trembles, actually trembles, as he fastens the rug round her.
"Now give me the reins," he says, "and keep your head down; we are in for a regular storm."
As he speaks, the rain comes down with a whiz, as if it meant to wash them off the box.