At one of the windows she paused, and stood full in the rain, looking out at the C. & S. C. tracks, with their twinkling red and green lights, all blurred and seeming far off in the storm.
"Isn't this pretty wet?" he said, standing beside her.
"I don't care." She shook the folds of the rubber coat, and glanced down at it. "I like it."
They looked out for a long time. Two millwrights came through the gallery, and glanced at them, but they did not turn. She stepped forward and let the rain beat on her face—he stood behind, looking at her. A light showed far down the track, and they heard a faint whistle. "A train," he said; and she nodded. The headlight grew, and the car lights appeared behind it, and then the black outline of the engine. There was a rush and a roar, and it passed under them.
"Doesn't it make you want to jump down?" she said softly, when the roar had dwindled away.
He nodded with a half-smile. "Say," he said, a little later, "I don't know about your writing—I don't believe we'd better—" he got the words out more rapidly—"I'll tell you what you do—you come along with me and we won't have to write."
"Come—where?"
"Up to the St. Lawrence. We can start on the third just the same."
She did not answer, and he stopped. Then, after a moment, she slowly turned, and looked at him.
"Why—" she said—"I don't think I—"