"Because that ridiculous phrase has been running in my head all day," he replied, shivering again slightly. "I wonder if the rain came as a rebuke to me for throwing over everything."
She nodded, signifying that she understood.
"It's rather queer," he went on, "but I had never thought of possible drawbacks to bucolic freedom."
"You do now, though," she suggested with a mischievous upward glance through her lashes that thrilled him.
"I seem to believe in nothing else now," he added. "I don't possess your veneration for the rain, I prefer skylarks. Besides," he went on, "I like to lie on my back in a field and forget."
"I know," she said eagerly, "I've often wanted to live in a caravan, then you get everything. The night sounds must be so wonderful."
"You cannot be a vagabond if you carry your house with you," he objected.
"Just as much as those who use other people's houses—the inns," she retorted. "I suppose it's really impossible to be a vagabond other than at heart."
"It's impossible unless you can glory in dirt and personal uncleanliness."
"What a horrible idea. Surely there can be clean vagabonds."
"What opportunity has a tramp to wash? There are only the streams and the rivers, with the chance of getting run in for disturbing the trout or polluting the water. Besides, without soap you cannot
