“The umbrella. I'm sorry, and you'll get dreadfully wet, but it's your own fault.”
He could feel her hand near his own on the handle. He did not relinquish his grasp.
“No,” he said. “I think, on the whole, that that is unreasonable. I SHOULD get wet and, though I don't mind it when it is necessary, I—”
“Well?” rather sharply, “what are you going to do?”
“Go with you as far as your gate. I'm sorry, if my company is distasteful, but—”
He did not finish the sentence, thinking, it may be, that she might finish it for him. But she was silent, merely removing her hand from the handle. She took a step forward; he followed, holding the umbrella above her head. They plashed on, without speaking, through the rapidly forming puddles.
Presently she stumbled and he caught her arm to prevent her falling. To his surprise he felt that arm shake in his grasp.
“Why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed in great concern, “are you crying? I beg your pardon. Of course I wouldn't think of going another step with you. I didn't mean to trouble you. I only—If you will please take this umbrella—”
Again he tried to transfer the umbrella and again she pushed it away.
“I—I'm not crying,” she gasped; “but—oh, dear! this is SO funny!”