Close together, holding tightly to each other, they breasted the swirling sheets of rain. The big umbrella was of little protection to them, although held manfully to break the force of the cold flood of waters. They bent their strong young bodies against the wind, and a sort of wild, impish hilarity took possession of them. It was freedom, after all! They were fighting a force in nature that they understood, and the sharp, staccato cries that came from their lips were born of an exultant glee which neither of them could have suppressed or controlled. Their hearts were as wild as the tempest about them.
They turned the corner and were flanked by the wind and rain. The long raincoats flattened their sleek, dripping folds tightly against their bodies. It was almost impossible to push forward into this mad deluge. The umbrella, caught by a gust, was turned inside out, and the full force of the storm struck upon their faces, almost taking the breath away. And they laughed as their arms tightened about each other. As one person they breasted the gale.
They were fairly blown through the doors of the apartment-house. Mrs Desmond threw open the door as their wet, soggy feet came sloshing down the hall. Frederic's arm was about Lydia as they approached, and both of their drenched faces were wreathed in smiles—gay, exalted smiles. The mother, white-faced and fearful, stared for a second at the amazing pair, and then held out her arms to them.
She was drenched in their embrace, but no one thought of the havoc that was being created in that swift, impulsive contact.
“It's a fine mess we've made of your rug, Mrs Desmond,” said Frederic ruefully a few minutes later.
“Goodness!” cried Lydia, aghast. Then they all realised.
“Take those horrid things off at once, both of you,” commanded Mrs Desmond. Her voice trembled. “And your shoes—and stockings. Dear, dear!”
“I must run back home!” exclaimed Frederic.
Lydia placed herself between him and the door.
“No! I want you to stay!” she cried.