"This, do you mean?" plucking one. "No, it is a Marshal Neil."
"Ah, so it is. How stupid of me to make the mistake!" says Cyril, who in reality knows as much about roses as about the man in the Iron Mask.
As he speaks, two or three drops of rain fall heavily upon his face,—one upon his nose, two into his earnest eyes, a large one finds its way cleverly between his parted lips. This latter has more effect upon him than the other three combined.
"It is raining," he says, naturally but superfluously, glancing at his coat-sleeve for confirmation of his words.
Heavier and heavier fall the drops. A regular shower comes pattering from the heavens right upon their devoted heads. The skies grow black with rain.
"You will get awfully wet. Do go into the house," Cyril says, anxiously glancing at her bare head.
"So will you," with hesitation, gazing with longing upon the distant arbor, toward which she is evidently bent on rushing.
"I dare say,"—laughing,—"but I don't much mind even if I do catch it before I get home."
"Perhaps"—unwillingly, and somewhat coldly—"you would like to stand in the arbor until the shower is over?"