"No, not hurt, only—shaken—and—and—stupid," she answered, on the verge of tears.
His arm still held her. It closed about her, very surely, very steadily.
He did not utter a word.
The rain swept down in a torrent, as if the skies had opened. Great hail-stones beat upon the laurels around them with tropical violence. The noise of the downpour seemed vaster, more overwhelming, even than the thunder.
Juliet was palpitating from head to foot. She leaned upon the supporting arm, her eyes closed against the leaping lightning, her two hands pressed hard upon her breast. Columbus crouched close to her, shivering.
And ever the man's arm drew her nearer, nearer, till she felt the strong beating of his heart. The storm raged on about them, but they two stood, as it were, alone, wrapped at its very centre in a great silence. For minutes they neither moved nor spoke.
Slowly the turmoil abated. The downpour lessened. The storm passed. And
Juliet stirred.
"How—disgraceful of me!" she murmured. "I'm not generally so foolish as this. But—it was so very violent."
"I know," he said. His hold slackened. He let her go. And then suddenly he stayed her. He took her hand, and bending pressed it closely, burningly, to his lips.
She stood motionless, suffering him. But in a moment, as he still held her, very gently she spoke. "Mr. Green, please—don't be so terribly in earnest! It's too soon. I warned you before. You haven't known me—long enough."
He stood up and faced her, her hand still in his. A light was growing behind the storm-clouds, revealing his dark clean-cut features, and the look half humorous, half-tense, that rested upon them.