"Y' need a towel, Mister," she said.
"I could do with one," said he.
"Come an' I'll get ye one," she said.
He followed meekly. She led him to an outside room, somewhere near the stable. He stood in the doorway.
"Here y' are!" she said, from the darkness inside.
"Bring it me," he said from the moon outside.
"Come in an' I'll dry your hair for yer." Her voice sounded like the voice of a 'wild creature in a black cave. He ventured, unseeing, uncertain, into the den, half reluctant. But there was a certain coaxing imperiousness in her wild-animal voice, out of the black darkness.
He walked straight into her arms. He started and stiffened as if attacked. But her full, soft body was moulded against him. Still he drew fiercely back. Then feeling her yield to draw away and leave him, the old flame flew over him, and he drew her close again.
"Dearie!" she murmured. "Dearie!" and her hand went stroking the back of his wet head.
"Come!" she said. "And let me dry your hair."