Tersely—“Upon my soul.”
She rose somewhat hurriedly. “It’s going to rain!”
“Never mind. I have a conundrum. Why is love like a mushroom?”
She wrinkled her brow. “Because it’s easily crushed, I suppose, and you’re never quite sure of it.”
“Wrong. Because it springs up in a night—that is, in an hour,” he answered, impressively.
The drops began to fall softly, swiftly, easily, as if they would never more be stanched.
“Come,” she said, but her cheeks were more richly colored than before.
“Isn’t this heavenly?” he murmured, as they vanished down the road in a blur of rain. She did not answer, but her eyes were shining.
