She did not know how long she sat there, but at last there were footsteps behind her, and she coloured a little and strove to draw the shoeless foot beneath the hem of the dripping skirt when she saw Ingleby smiling down upon her. Then she remembered that the sleeves of the thin blouse were still rolled back, and the crimson grew plainer in her wet cheeks as with a little adroit movement she shook them down. Ingleby smiled again, in a complacent, brotherly fashion which she found strangely exasperating just then, and sitting down beside her took one of her hot hands.
"Crying, Hetty? That will never do," he said.
Hetty glanced at him covertly. His face was compassionate, but there was rather toleration than concern in it, and she pulled her hand away from him.
"I wasn't—at least, not exactly," she said. "And if I was, it was the weather—and why don't you go away?"
Ingleby smiled again, in a manner which while kind enough had yet a lack of comprehension in it that made her still angrier.
"People don't generally cry about the weather," he said.
"Well," said the girl sharply, "some of them say things they shouldn't. I heard you—in a crowded car, too."
She stopped abruptly, as she remembered the scanty privacy of the Colonist train, and that she was supposed to have been asleep about the time Ingleby had allowed his temper to get the better of him. He, however, only laughed.
"Hetty," he said, "what is the matter? I always thought you brave, and I have almost a right to know."
"I think you have," and there was a little flash in Hetty's eyes. "It was you who brought us here, and this is a horrible country. It frightens me."