"Yes; I'm afraid so," he admitted. "I was hoping we would get out of
here before it came."

"Oh!" said Helena.

"And the worst of it is," he added hurriedly, "there's no top to the
car, and you've no wraps."

"Perhaps it won't be anything more than a shower," said Helena
hopefully.

"Perhaps not," he agreed. "Anyway"--he stopped the car, and took off his
coat--"put this on."

"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.