Upstairs in the room she shared with May, Jenny sat before the glass
combing her hair, while outside the rain poured down with volume
increasing every moment. The wash of water through the black, soundless
night, lent the little room, with its winking candle, a comfortable
security. The gentle breathing of May and the swish of the hairbrush
joined the stream of rain without in a monotone of whisperings that
sighed endless round Jenny's vivid thoughts. Suddenly she sprang from
her reverie, and, pulling up the blind with a rattle, flung open the
window to dip her hands into the wet darkness. May sat up, wild-eyed
from sleep. The candle gasped and fluttered.
"Whatever is it?" cried May.
"Oh, Maisie, Maisie," said her sister; "it's raining real kisses
to-night. It is, really."
"Have you gone mad?"
"Oh, let me get into bed quick and dream. Oh, May, I'd go mad to dream
to-night."
And soon the rain washed down unheard, where Jenny, lying still as
coral, dreamed elusive ardors, ghostly ecstasies.