CHAPTER VIII.
he rain showed no signs of abating, but Alfred Wimple was chilly and hungry. Moreover, he was tired of the tête-à-tête in the shed, and he had a dull curiosity to hear the result of Aunt Anne’s visit to town. It was certain to provide some sort of excitement for the evening. If she had brought back money he would reap the benefit of it; if she had not, he could at least make her suffer, and to watch her suffer would provide him a satisfaction over which he gloated more and more with every experience of it. He buttoned his coat, turned up the bottoms of his trousers, and looked for his umbrella; then he hesitated a moment and looked out at the weather. He hated rain.
“I wish I had thought to bring myself an umbrella,” his companion said; “it’s a long way across. Joe Pook is over at the King’s Head with his cart, and he’ll drive me back; but it’s a good bit to there.”
Alfred Wimple coughed.
“I can’t let you have mine”—and he held it firmly; “my chest is not strong.”
“I wasn’t saying it for that,” she answered; “I was only thinking it was a pity I didn’t bring one. Good-bye; you’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“I will try,” he said, in his most sombre manner, as though he felt it to be an important undertaking. “Good-bye, Caroline.”
Before they were many yards apart she turned and went after him. Her jacket was already wet with rain; her black straw hat was shining. There was an anxious excitement in her manner.