“I left it; it was wet through.”
Before I knew what he was doing, he had stripped off his heavy overcoat, and I felt its warmth and thickness about my shoulders.
“Oh, don’t!” I cried, in great distress, as I strove to remove it again, and looked imploringly into his face.
“Don’t do that. You will get cold; you will—”
“Get cold!” he laughed, as if much amused, as he drew the coat around me and fastened it, making no more ado of my resisting hands than if they had been bits of straw.
“So!” said he, pushing one of my arms through the sleeve. “Now,” as he still held it fastened together, and looked half laughingly at me, “do you intend to keep it on or not?”
“I suppose I must.”
“I call that gratitude. Take my arm—so. You are weak yet.”
We walked on in silence for some time. I was happy; for the first time since the night I had heard “Lohengrin” I was happy and at rest. True, no forgiveness had been asked or extended; but he had ceased to behave as if I were not forgiven.
“Am I not going too fast?” he inquired.