“I had to come,” he said, “to tell you that I didn’t know anything about those letters from Cooper & Cooper. I never heard of them till to-day.”
Never in his life had he imagined that a girl could look like this. Her hair lay dank across her forehead, giving to her glowing face an adorably childlike look. Her dark lashes were wet, and were like rays about her clear eyes; and the kindness, the heavenly kindness of her regard! The poor fellow had positively no idea that she was a forlorn, bedraggled little object. There he stood, looking up at her, and she looked at him, and tears came into her eyes.
“Don’t!” he cried.
“But you don’t know!” she said.
She meant that he didn’t know how splendid and gallant and handsome he appeared, bareheaded in the rain, with a great streak of mud across his face, and how deeply touched she was by his coming through a flood to explain about the letters; and of course she didn’t wish him to know.
“I—my boxes!” she said, by way of explaining the tears. “I’ve been into the city to see a wholesaler, and he’s bought them all. I had them all on the dining room floor, ready to pack, and I’m afraid—”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Sargent.
“No! No! Mr. Sargent, come out of that water!” said she sternly. “It doesn’t matter!”
“It does,” said he. “Wait here!”
Off he splashed again.