She drew back a little and opened her lips to protest at first, but with a slight shrug she resigned herself, her eyes downcast, a faint colour in her face.
"I must be quite dry now," she said at last.
"I'm afraid not," said Stafford.

"I wish I had something bigger--a towel." She laughed, the sweet girlish laugh which seemed to him the most musical sound he had ever heard.
"A towel?
Fancying carrying a towel to wipe oneself with when it rained! It is evident you don't know our country.

There are weeks sometimes in which it never ceases to rain.

And you must be wet through yourself," she added, glancing at him.
He was on his knees at the moment carefully wiping the old habit skirt with his saturated handkerchief as if the former were something precious; and her woman's eye noted his short crisp hair, the shapely head and the straight broad back.
"I'm afraid that's all I can do!" he said, regretfully, as he rose and looked at her gravely.

"Do you mean to say that you habitually ride out in such weather as this ?" "Why, yes!" she replied, lightly.