"Nothing. I was just thinking. There comes the rain!" she cried. "Gosh, what a storm!"
They both got up, to push back their chairs against the wall of the house, but even there it reached them—the spray from the rain falling in straight, heavy lines, dashing against the earth with a fierce drumming noise that filled the air and confused the senses. The smell of the soil, the dead leaves, the grass, came to them with its own invigorating freshness; and in spite of the chilly sprinkle in their faces they lingered; fascinated by the noise, the wet odours, the great black, uproarious void before them. They stood close together, their shoulders touching, their backs against the wall.
"Angelica!" said Eddie’s voice in her ear, curiously flat and faint in the surrounding din. "Angelica, can’t you? Just think—if I could only know—while I’m away—that you—that you were waiting for me!"
"Eddie," she replied, "I couldn’t. Not now, anyway. Perhaps—later. I don’t know."
"You mean—you think some day—it’s not impossible? You could, then? I mean—I’m not repulsive to you?"
"Deary boy!" she protested. "Of course you’re not."
"Do you think you could—kiss me?" he asked. "I’m going away to-morrow."
She turned, put a hand upon his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.
"There!" she said. "Now you see!"
He didn’t move; stood there like a statue.