I call him "Roger!" My voice is small and low, and the wind is large and loud, but he hears me.
"Yes?" (turning at the sound with a surprised expression).
"May I go home in the fly?" I ask impulsively, yet humbly, "I mean with—with her!" (a gulp at the pronoun), then, under the influence of a fear that he may think that I am driven by a hankering after creature comforts to this overture, I go on quickly, "it is not because I want to be kept dry—if I were to be dragged through the sea I could not be wetter than I am—but if you wish—Barbara thought—Barbara said—"
I mumble off into shy incoherency.
"Will you?" he says, with a tone of eagerness and pleasure, which, if not real, is at least admirably feigned. "It is what I was just wishing to ask you, only" (laughing with a sort of constraint and a touch of bitterness) "I really was afraid!"
"Am I such a shrew?" I say, looking at him with a feeling of growing light-heartedness. "Ah! I always was! was not I, Barbara?" Then, a moment after, in a tone that is almost gay, I say, "May Barbara come, too? is there room?"
"Of course!" he answers readily; "surely there is plenty of room for all!"
While the words are yet on his lips, while I am still smiling up at him, under the soaked tartan there comes a voice from the coach.
"Roger!"
He obeys the summons. It is just five paces off, and I hear each of the slow and softly-enunciated words that follow.