It was Scarfe; and Raby would sooner have met any one else in the world.
“Thank you,” said she, “I shall be quite sheltered under this tree. Don’t let me detain you.”
“Nonsense!” said he; “you know I am delighted to be detained so pleasantly. Won’t you come farther under the trees?”
“No, I must be home, thank you. I don’t want to be late.”
But just then the rain came down in such a deluge that she had nothing for it but to give in and stand up for shelter.
“It seems ages since we met,” began Scarfe.
Raby had a vivid enough recollection of that evening in the conservatory, but did not contradict him.
“I called at Clarges Street last month, hoping to see you, but you were away.”
“Yes, we were abroad—all but Percy.”
“I saw Percy. Poor fellow, he did not seem himself at all. Miss Atherton, you must not blame me if I remind you of something we were talking about when I last saw you—”