“Very early,” he continued, without heeding her.
“Then let me have the old one.”
“It’s full of holes. Besides, one of the ribs is broken.”
“Oh, never mind. I can quite well get back without one at all.”
“It might be managed,” suggested Vernon, guiltily, when he had produced and examined carefully the second best umbrella, which proved to be only a little better than its reputation. “If I were to walk part of the way back with you, it might clear up, and you might be able to get home without one; and I could bring it back, you see.”
“But I don’t like to trouble. I’m always imposing,” murmured Olivia.
However, the half permission had been enough for Mr. Brander, who was by this time slipping into his rough overcoat with the alacrity of the British workman at the sound of the first stroke of six.
Worse conditions for a pleasant walk through the fields and lanes can scarcely be imagined than a March evening after a pouring wet day, a fine rain falling, the ground ankle-deep in mud, and the darkness already so thick that an occasional slip into a puddle was unavoidable. They had to walk in most uneven, jolting fashion to find a path at all through the steepest part of the lane. Sometimes Olivia had to take Mr. Brander’s arm to keep her footing at all, and once he had to help her to jump over a miniature torrent. They scarcely talked at all, but a warm sense of human sympathy and mutual help grew so strong between them that when they came to a particularly ugly quagmire their eyes would meet with a smile and a nod, and they would go on again very happily. At last, when they got to the top of the hill, and both instinctively stopped for breath at the same moment, Olivia looked up and said, shyly and simply—
“Did you know it was I—all the time?”
“I knew it was you when I felt—something on my face. I was asleep, and it woke me.”