“I declare I think it a very mad excursion, and the only thing certain to come of it will be a heavy cold or a fever.”
“And we face the same risks every day for nothing. I'm sure wet weather never kept you from joining the hounds.”
This home-thrust about the very point on which he was then smarting decided the matter, and he arose and left the room without a word.
“Yes,” muttered he, as he mounted the stairs, “there it is! That's the reproach I can never make head against. The moment they say, 'You were out hunting,' I stand convicted at once.”
There was little opportunity for talk as they breasted the beating rain on their way to Castello; great sheets of water came down with a sweeping wind, which at times compelled them to halt and seek shelter ere they could recover breath to go on.
“What a night,” muttered be. “I don't think I was ever out in a worse.”
“Is n't it rare fun, George?” said she, laughingly. “It's as good as swimming in a rough sea.”
“Which I always hated.”
“And which I delighted in! Whatever taxes one's strength to its limits, and exacts all one's courage besides, is the most glorious of excitements. There's a splash; that was hail, George.”
He muttered something that was lost in the noise of the storm; and though from time to time she tried to provoke him to speak, now by some lively taunt, now by some jesting remark on his sullen humor, he maintained his silence till he reached the terrace, when he said,—