“Please don’t, Mr Scarfe; I have no wish to refer to it.”
“But I must. Do you know, Raby, I have thought of no one but you ever since?”
Raby said nothing, and wished the rain would stop.
“Is it too much to ask whether, perhaps once or twice, you have thought of me?”
Raby began to get angry. Was it not cowardly to get her here at a disadvantage and begin to talk to her about what she had no wish to hear?
“Yes—I have thought once or twice of you,” she said.
“How good of you, Raby!” said he, trying to take her hand. “May I hope it was with something more than indifference—with love?”
“Certainly not,” said she, drawing back her hand, and, in spite of the rain, starting to walk.
Bitterly crestfallen, he walked at her side and held his umbrella over her.
“You are harsh with me,” said he reproachfully.