That evening, when he followed Jess to the drawing-room he primed himself for the coming ordeal, for he felt that it would amount to simply that.
She was advancing toward the open window, and he hastened to her side, saying:
“I know you were just about to step out on the porch. You love the outdoor air so well that I am sorry to inform you that it is raining heavily.”
“What difference will that make to me, Mr. Dinsmore?” exclaimed the girl, cresting her dark, curly head. “I love the rain and the warring of the elements. I am at home among them. They will not harm me; I am not sugar, nor salt; therefore the rain will not spoil me nor make havoc of my complexion.” And she laughed airily as she uttered the words.
“But the rain will make havoc of that lovely costume you have on,” he declared, biting his lips with vexation.
“I shall throw my waterproof cloak about me, and put on my rubbers,” she retorted, nonchalantly.
“But what is the use of venturing out on to the porch in a driving gale like this?” he cried. “You will take your death of cold.” Adding: “Besides, I am not so fortunate as to be equipped to accompany you.”
“Indeed, I did not expect you to do so,” retorted the girl, quickly. “And you are mistaken about my intending to stop on the porch. Why, I’m going out into the very teeth of the storm—out into the grounds—possibly farther down the road. There is a miniature cataract in the woods about half a mile from here. I always go there to watch the swirling, angry water in a storm. It is simply grand, especially when the lightning strikes and fells some of the giant trees, which it is nearly always sure to do.”
Challoner looked at the girl in dismay, wondering what sort of a creature she could be. She was so vastly different from the rest of the girls he had known. Silks and laces could not make her different from what nature had intended her—a veritable tomboy, and a heathenish one at that.
No matter where she went, he was determined to accompany her and propose to her, that very evening, come what might.