CHAPTER II.
A COMMUNITY OF INTERESTS.
About noon the next day Dick North left his uncle’s house with the intention of going to his club. It was a rough windy morning, with occasional scuds of rain, and when one of these overtook Dick as he was crossing the street, he found to his disgust that from the force of habit he had come out without an umbrella. Taking refuge in a doorway, for the shower proved to be a sharp one, he discovered that his asylum was already in the possession of a lady, in whom he quickly recognised Miss Keeling. She was looking very smart in a business-like ulster and a neat little felt hat, from the brim of which the rain-drops were falling on her wind-blown hair, for the umbrella she held in her hand—a mere mass of metal spikes and shreds of silk—could only be called an umbrella by courtesy, and had evidently given way before the force of the gale.
“Any port in a storm!” she said, merrily, as she shook hands with Dick.
“I am sorry I can’t offer to lend you an umbrella,” he remarked, “for I am worse off than yourself.”
“No, I think you are more sensible,” she replied, “for an umbrella is sure to be turned inside out in this wind. You see I am prepared for rain, and I have no fear of getting wet, but I do dislike it when the rain-drops trickle down my neck.”
“Pray allow me to run across and get you an umbrella from one of those shops over there,” he said stiffly, annoyed to find his resentment against her melting under the influence of her friendly manner.
“Oh no, thank you, I couldn’t think of it,” she replied, surveying him carefully, and taking due note of his curly-brimmed hat, his long coat, the huge carnation in his buttonhole, and the immaculate spats protecting his equally spotless boots. “You are not quite dressed for running anywhere, are you?”
The resentment returned promptly in full force.
“I am sorry my appearance is displeasing to you,” he said, in a tone which he tried vainly to make a light and sportive one.
“Oh, but it isn’t at all. It is most correct—unimpeachably correct.”