Frieda grimaced.
“If every one there is as beautiful and–apart as Catherine is, I shan’t get on very well. Catherine is like a saint. She could never understand wickedness as you and Hannah do.”
“Thanks very much!” Polly answered dryly. “But you take my word for it, Catherine isn’t just a saint. There is fun in her, too, though not on the surface. You may always feel as though she were a beautiful picture or poem but you won’t like her the less for that. She’s not stand-offish. She’s just different. My dear, I felt a drop.”
“So did I. And there’s another.” Straightway 169 the heavens opened and a deluge descended, most of it, it seemed, aiming for the small rowboat at the pasture’s edge.
The thin roof of boughs which had hidden from their view the swiftly gathering clouds was wholly inadequate to the task of sheltering them from the contents of the clouds. Great cracks of lightning showed in the dark sky, and thunder rattled and roared and rumbled and burst.
Polly looked grave.
“We’ll drown if we stay here, and we could never row home. Look at the waves! And if we stay here, we’re also liable to be struck by lightning. Let’s leave the boat and make for that farmhouse across the pasture.”
“I’m afraider of the cow,” said Frieda. “But I’ll go. We can hide the oars and oar-locks in the bushes.”
Progress across the pasture was difficult, but when the road beyond was reached, both looked aghast at the muddy stream of it.
Frieda rolled under the fence and stepped boldly in. Polly, gasping with laughter, started to climb over.