Her gloved hand rested on his shoulder, and her voice—no, impossible!
“You’re not—crying?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, I am,” said Miss Patterson. “I am. I can’t bear to—to think of your getting so wet and catching a cold—just to get me a—a taxi!”
“But I shan’t catch cold,” said Hardy. He was trying to bear in mind that her words, her tears, were nothing but an expression of her wonderful kindness and humanity. She would be sorry for any one who got wet and caught a cold in her service. That was all that she meant—absolutely all. “I shan’t catch cold,” he went on. “I never do: but you—you see, you’re so delicate—”
“I’m not!” said she. “Not a bit! But I remember perfectly well that last February you had the most—oh, the most awful cold!”
“Edith!” cried he, astounded, overwhelmed by this confession. “You remember that?”
Miss Patterson suddenly drew away, and ceased weeping.
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “I—yes, I remember.”
A silence.
“Then you must—must feel a little interested in me,” said Hardy.