Despite the protests of Jones they dashed out into the blighting thunderstorm. The rain beat down in torrents, the din was infernal. As the door closed behind them Lydia, in the ecstasy of freedom from restraint bitterly imposed, gave vent to a shrill cry of relief. Words, the meaning of which he could not grasp, babbled from her lips as they descended the steps. One sentence fell vaguely clear from the others, and it puzzled him. He was sure that she said: “Oh, I am so glad, so happy we are out of that house--you and I together.” Close together, holding tightly to each other, they breasted the swirling sheets of rain. The big umbrella was of little protection to them, although held manfully to break the force of the cold flood of waters. They bent their strong young bodies against the wind, and a sort of wild, impish hilarity took possession of them. It was freedom, after all! They were fighting a force in nature that they understood, and the sharp, staccato cries that came from their lips were born of an exultant glee which neither of them could have suppressed or controlled. Their hearts were as wild as the tempest about them. They turned the corner and were flanked by the wind and rain. The long raincoats flattened their sleek, dripping folds tightly against their bodies. It was almost impossible to push forward into this mad deluge. The umbrella, caught by a gust, was turned inside out, and the full force of the storm struck upon their faces, almost taking the breath away. And they laughed as their arms tightened about each other. As one person they breasted the gale. They were fairly blown through the doors of the apartment-house. Mrs Desmond threw open the door as their wet, soggy feet came sloshing down the hall. Frederic's arm was about Lydia as they approached, and both of their drenched faces were wreathed in smiles--gay, exalted smiles. The mother, white-faced and fearful, stared for a second at the amazing pair, and then held out her arms to them. She was drenched in their embrace, but no one thought of the havoc that was being created in that swift, impulsive contact. “It's a fine mess we've made of your rug, Mrs Desmond,” said Frederic ruefully a few minutes later. “Goodness!” cried Lydia, aghast. Then they all realised. “Take those horrid things off at once, both of you,” commanded Mrs Desmond. Her voice trembled. “And your shoes--and stockings. Dear, dear!” “I must run back home!” exclaimed Frederic. Lydia placed herself between him and the door. “No! I want you to stay!” she cried. “Stay?” “You shall not go out in that dreadful storm again. I will not let you go, Frederic. Stay--stay here with me.” He stared. “What a funny idea!” “Wait until the rain is over,” added Mrs Desmond. “No, no!” cried Lydia. “I mean for him to stay here the rest of the night. We can put you up, Freddy. I--I don't want you to go back there until--until to-morrow.”