That is
where most of this mud came from--" and Jack turned his long,
clay-encrusted boot so that Ruth could see how large a section of
the "fill" he had brought with him.
Ruth began to laugh. There was no ostensible reason why she should
laugh; there was nothing about Jack's make-up to cause it. Indeed,
she thought he had never looked so handsome, even if his hair were
plastered to his temples under his water-soaked hat and his
clothes daubed with mud.
And yet she did laugh:--At the way her veil got knotted under her
chin,--so tightly knotted that Jack had to take both hands to
loosen it, begging pardon for touching her throat, and hoping all
the while that his clumsy fingers had not hurt her;--at the way
her hat was crumpled, the flowers "never,--never, being of the
slightest use to anybody again"; at her bedraggled skirts--"such a
sight, and sopping wet."
And Jack laughed, too,--agreeing to everything she said, until she
reached that stage in the conversation, never omitted on occasions
of this kind, when she declared, arching her head, that she must
look like a perfect fright, which Jack at once refuted exclaiming
that he had never seen her look so--he was going to say "pretty,"
but checked himself and substituted "well," instead, adding, as he
wiped off her ridiculously small boots, despite her protests, with
his wet handkerchief,--that cloud-bursts were not such bad
things, after all, now that he was to have the pleasure of
escorting her home.
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