Leslie laughs.
"After all, it is a proper picnic," she says.
But the next instant her laugh dies away, for the heavens seem to open before them, a peal of thunder roars like the discharge of a park of artillery just above their heads, and the horses, startled and frightened, stop dead short, then rear up on end.
The carriage sways, and for a moment it seems as if it were going over, and Leslie is forced up close against Yorke.
He holds the terrified horses with one strong hand, against him.
"All right," he says, in a low voice. "Don't be afraid, Leslie!" His arm holds her, supports her, presses her to him, perhaps unconsciously. "You are quite safe, dearest, dearest."
Low as his voice is, Leslie hears him, or—she asks herself—is it only fancy?
For a moment, one brief moment, she cowers, nestling to him, her face hidden against his shoulder; then with a start, she draws away, and with her face red and white by turns, looks straight before her.
And through the roar of thunder, and the hissing of the rain, she hears those words re-echoing, "Leslie, dearest—dearest!"