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getting wet yourself, at least give me the books,' he said impatiently. 'They're too valuable to be spoiled just because you choose to be stubborn.' He did not sound as if he cared whether she got drenched, so long as the books were safe, and her chin came up.
    'I'm not being stubborn.'
    'If you choose to get soaked rather than remain dry in the car, you're out of your mind,' he retorted bluntly, and before she could stop him he whisked the books out of her arms and into the rear seat. 'Are you going to get in or not?' he asked impatiently, and ducked his head against a return squall that flung itself against the shining coachwork in a hissing downpour. 'Make your mind up, quick. I'm getting wet as well as you.' He was still in his shirt sleeves, as unprotected as she was, and a tardy feeling of guilt made Marion duck into the shelter of the front passenger seat, and release him to run round the car to his own. He slammed the door on her with unnecessary force, indicative of the state of his feelings towards her, and she wondered what had made him return to pick her up. Perhaps he had not. He could have been passing, and seen her on the library steps, and stopped out of sheer compassion for her unprotected state—or concern for the books. She sent him a covert glance, and discovered he was watching her as he turned sideways in his seat, and brushed the clinging dampness from his shirt with undisguised irritation in his movements.
    'If I get pneumonia, I shall expect you to nurse me,' he told her, and she flushed uncomfortably.
    'I'm as wet as you are. Wetter.'
    'I can see that.' He shook out the duster in his hand and re-balled it in a fresh grasp. 'Hold still, while I wipe you down. You needn't worry, it's quite clean,' as she made a wriggle of protest, 'and it'll take the surface wet off you at least.' His left hand grasped her shoulder while his right hand wielded the duster efficiently across her shoulders and collar, and over her hair—it seemed to linger on her hair, but perhaps that was merely her imagination—and finally, she burst into indignant speech, across her face and chin.
    'I don't want a wash.'
    'You look as if you've been under a shower bath,' he grinned. 'Sorry if I've spoiled your make-up.' He did not look in the least sorry. His eyes mocked her burning cheeks, and she snapped angrily,
    'I don't use make-up.'
    'That makes a nice change,' he said approvingly, and ignoring her glare he pushed the duster into her hands.
    'You'd better mop up the rest yourself. Your legs and feet look pretty badly splashed.' They had caught most of the spray from the passing car, and were cold, and wet, and muddy. She would have liked to hurl his duster back at him, but sheer discomfort warned her that it would be wiser if she did as she was told. She gritted her teeth and bent to her task in silence, acutely aware of him watching her, noting her every movement.
    'I'd have finished the job for you myself,' he murmured wickedly as she finished and -sat back in her seat, 'but there's not much room to manoeuvre in a car.'
    She looked round at him suspiciously, and then looked away again quickly.
    'I'll wash the duster for you when we get home, and let you have it back,' she said hurriedly, and occupied herself with unnecessary concentration, folding the duster into neat halves, and then into quarters, rather than meet his look again.
    'D'you need to do any shopping?' He keyed the engine into life and waited with his hand on the gear lever.
    'No.' Marion ignored her need for a new sketching pencil. She would rather use the two broken halves of her old one than be under any further obligation to Reeve.
    'In that case, well go and join Willy.'
    She had not expected this. She thought he would be going straight back to Fallbeck, but of course he would have to pick up the pilot. She leaned back in her seat and resigned herself to Reeve's sole company until they got to the airport.
    'We're a bit early,' he commented as they arrived.