She shivered.
“You are wet,” I said, anxiously. “There is a storm coat of mine in the locker forward. Won't you put that about your shoulders? It may prevent your taking cold.”
“No, thank you. I am not wet, at all; or, at least, only my feet and the bottom of my skirt. I shall not take cold.”
“But—”
“Please don't worry. I am all right, or shall be as soon as I get home.”
“I am very sorry about your canoe.”
“It doesn't matter.”
Her answers were short now. There was a different note in her voice. I knew the reason of the change. Now that the shock and the surprise of our meeting were over she and I were resuming our old positions. She was realizing that her companion was the “common fellow” whose “charming and cultivated society” was not necessary to her happiness, the fellow to whom she had scornfully offered “congratulations” and whom she had cut dead at the Deans' that very afternoon. I made no more suggestions and expressed no more sympathy.
“I will take you home at once,” I said, curtly.
“If you please.”