all probability question, not only her reason, but her sense of delicacy.
The Rain-Girl (as Beresford mentally called her) obviously possessed character; but why was she tramping alone upon an English high-road, particularly when the heavens were drenching the earth with cold and cheerless rain? It was a queer thing for a girl to do, queer beyond analysis or comprehension. What would she have done had he spoken to her? In all probability have snubbed him; yet surely two strangers might pass the time of day upon the highway, even though they were of opposite sexes.
It had been an absurd sort of day, Beresford decided, and the sooner it were blotted from his memory the better; still he would like to see her again. Then he fell to speculating as to which direction she had taken.
Would dinner never be ready? Again he shivered, in spite of the heat of the fire. He would be all right, he told himself, as soon as he had eaten something. That waiter was a liar. More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed since he had promised dinner in ten minutes. He rang the bell. A few seconds later the door opened.
"Will dinner be long?" he enquired from where he stood facing the fire.
"They tell me it is ready now."
He span round with automatic suddenness, and found himself gazing into the same grey eyes that,
