"Nonsense, Pip; you'll get soaked."
Pip sighed, gently and patiently.
"Put it on," he repeated, holding it open for her.
Elsie glanced at him, and obeyed.
"You're an obstinate old pig, sometimes, Pip," she remarked.
And so they tramped home. They said little: there seemed to be nothing left in the world worth saying. Pip carried both sets of clubs under his left arm. Occasionally he sighed, long and gently, as one who has done his day's work and is at peace with all the world. Elsie marched beside him, with her arms buried to the elbows in the deep pockets of Pip's old jacket. (They were spacious pockets: one of them was sheltering two hands.) At intervals Elsie would look up at Pip, upon whose head and shoulders the rain was descending pitilessly. Once she said,—
"Pip, you're getting awfully wet."
Pip looked down upon her for a moment. Then he looked up again, and shook his glistening head defiantly at the weeping heavens.
"Who cares?" he roared.