“Stay?”
“You shall not go out in that dreadful storm again. I will not let you go, Frederic. Stay—stay here with me.”
He stared. “What a funny idea!”
“Wait until the rain is over,” added Mrs Desmond.
“No, no!” cried Lydia. “I mean for him to stay here the rest of the night. We can put you up, Freddy. I—I don't want you to go back there until—until to-morrow.”
A glad light broke in his face. “By Jove, I—do you know, I'd like to stay? I—I really would, Mrs Desmond. Can you find a place for me?” His voice was eager, his eyes sparkling.
“Yes,” said the mother quietly, almost serenely. “You shall have Lydia's bed, Frederic. She can come in with me. Yes, you must stay. Are you not our Frederic?”
“Thank you,” he stammered, and his eyes fell.
“I will telephone to Jones when the storm abates,” said Mrs Desmond. “Now get out of those coats, and—oh, dear, how wet you are! A hot drink for both.”
“Would you mind asking Jones to send over something for me to wear in the morning?” said Frederic, grinning as he stood forth in his evening clothes.