“Of course,” she observed absently, “you are dreadfully mortified at yourself.”
“Naturally,” he admitted.
The patter of the rain attracted her attention; she peered out through the blurred casements into the blackness. Then, picking up his cap and indicating his raincoat, “Why?” she asked.
“Oh—in case you hadn't come—”
“A walk? By yourself? A night like this on the cliffs! You are not perfectly mad, are you?”
“Not perfectly.”
Her face grew serious and beautiful.
“What is the matter, Mr. Siward?”
“Things.”
“Do you care to be more explicit?”