"She will be all right now," Mary said. "She has come out of the darkness. Even if she has his death to bear I think she will bear it. She reproaches herself for the pain she has caused her father."
"Poor Uncle Denis! He lives in terror about Nelly. She is all he has had since her mother died."
"I think he may rest easy now. Nelly is not going to die—not even of grief. Now that she is better, Sir Robin, why don't you go away? I know your yacht is waiting for you, and you have got the London look; you want change."
"I shan't go till there is news one way or another."
"There ought to be news soon. It is hard on you waiting from day to day."
"I don't feel it hard. Perhaps if the good news came I might induce them to come away with me on the yacht. It would be the best thing in the world for them. For the matter of that, why don't you go away? You also have the London look."
"Oh, I shall go gladly when I may. I am really longing to be off. Do you know what I shall hear when I go over there?—a sound I am longing for."
"What?"
"The rain. I close my eyes now and fancy I hear it pattering on the leaves. Oh, the music of it! One is never long without it at home. We've had six weeks without rain here. Can't you imagine the soft, delicious downpour of it? The music of the rain—my ears hunger for it."
"Oh, now indeed I see that it is time you went. You will probably have enough of the rain."