side the dripping horse-chestnut tree. Their greeting was awkward, embarrassed.
"Good evening," they both said, and then halted.
"I'm sorry—the seat's all wet," Nathaniel apologized, as if somehow it was his fault. "I brought a newspaper for you to sit on, but it's no use. It soaks through. I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter."
"There's no other place for us to go, I suppose."
"No dry place, I guess. I'll tell you," Reba suggested, "I'll put my umbrella down and stand under yours; then if we move under the tree we won't get so very wet, and can talk well enough too."
They did this, and a minute later, Reba, standing very straight before Nathaniel, under the shelter he held above her, her hands clasped upon the handle of her closed umbrella, which she held on the ground, like a staff, in front of her, looked up and began, "I've been thinking about what you told me here the other night."
"Yes." He was abject, shoulders stooped, head bent. "Yes, miss, I suppose you have. Don't mind saying anything you feel like," he murmured, trying to make it easy for her. "I'm used to knocks. I shan't mind, miss."
"I wasn't quite sure," Reba went on, "just what you meant the other night."
"Perhaps," he murmured, "I better not try to explain just what I did mean. Perhaps I better slip away on my boat next week without offending you any more with my affairs. I don't want to offend you." He was making it difficult for Reba.
