"YOU D--D IDIOT!" she said, in a voice that literally shook with rage.
Romney meekly scrambled up the bank after her.
"I'm awfully sorry, Lucinda," he said, striving with uncertain
success to keep a suspicious quiver of laughter out of his tone.
"It was wretchedly clumsy of me, but that pebble turned right under
my foot. Please forgive me--for that--and for other things."
Lucinda deigned no answer. She stood on a flat stone and wrung the water
from the poor green voile. Romney surveyed her apprehensively.
"Hurry, Lucinda," he entreated. "You will catch your death of cold."
"I never take cold," answered Lucinda, with chattering teeth.
"And it is my dress I am thinking of--was thinking of.
You have more need to hurry. You are sopping wet yourself
and you know you are subject to colds. There--come."
Lucinda picked up the stringy train, which had been so brave and buoyant
five minutes before, and started up the field at a brisk rate.
Romney came up to her and slipped his arm through hers in the old way.
For a time they walked along in silence. Then Lucinda began to shake with
inward laughter. She laughed silently for the whole length of the field;
and at the line fence between Peter Penhallow's land and the Grange
acres she paused, threw back the fascinator from her face, and looked
at Romney defiantly.
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