"No—please," protested Helena. "You'll need it yourself."
"Not at all," said Thornton cheerily. "And that light dress of yours would be soaked through in no time."
He held the coat for her, and she slipped it on—and his hand around her shoulder and neck, as he turned the collar up and buttoned it gently about her, seemed to linger as it touched her throat, and yet linger with the most curious diffidence—a sort of reverence. Helena suddenly wanted to laugh—and, quick in her intuition, as suddenly wanted to cry. It wasn't much—only a little touch. It didn't mean love, or passion, or feeling—only that, unconsciously in his respect, he held her up to gaze upon herself again in that mocking mirror where all was sham.
They started on—Thornton silent once more, busy with the car; Helena, her mind in riot, with no wish for words.
The rain came steadily in a drizzle. She could feel her dress growing damp around her knees—and she shivered a little. How strangely wonderful the rain-beads looked on their background of green leaves where the lamps played upon them—they seemed to catch and hold and reflect back the light in a quick, passing procession of clear, sparkling crystals. But it was raining more heavily now, wasn't it? The drops were no longer clinging to the leaves, they were spattering dull and lustrelessly to the ground. And Thornton seemed suddenly to be in trouble—he was bending down
