"Oh, not to-day." Montague was seeing nothing of brown sodden fields or long stretch of red road; he was wondering, wondering if he dared translate to speech the wild beatings of his heart.
But the swift ride and Frances' gay speeches gave him little chance; the cloud, forming long out of sight and coming up with ominous swiftness, made fast riding imperative; the red clay splashed them from head to foot; the wind, strong and damp and chill, whipped the loosened tendrils of Frances' hair about her face and billowed her short riding-skirt. Before they reached town the first drops were falling.
"We had better ride straight to the stables," Frances suggested.
"No, I'll send up for Lady at once. I'm going for my mail."
"Then you'd better go that way; I'll take this road." Frances bent above the saddle; the rain was lashing her face.
When Montague reached the University the rain had become a steady downpour. Frances had to leave him to entertain himself while she straightened the household affairs, which Roxie had tangled in her absence. The professor, coming in, was delighted to find him in the library.
"I declare," he said, "I was just wishing you were here. There are some things I want to ask you about, and I have a leisure afternoon. We can go down town after dinner."
"In this storm?" protested Frances, who had just come in through the dining-room door.
"Pooh! What does that matter? Edward is too good a countryman for that."