Victor didn't know Wordsworth enough to interpret her comment, but by now he was used to the occasional poetry reference slipping into their conversations and wasn't bothered by his ignorance. At her question he turned his attention down to his own suit, taking stock for the first time since they'd started dashing through the storm. "Suppose so," he observed, as he fished his wand out from a damp interior pocket. He tapped the scarf she'd hung over the tree branch with the tip, drying it with a spell, then ran one hand through his own hair to shake some of the residual water out of it. "I hadn't noticed. We're lucky it's such a warm day. I don't know that I mind the rain when I'm better dressed for it — though I certainly wouldn't claim the fondness you've just professed." He looked her over again, thinking through something.

"You like the country very much?" he asked after a minute. "You're quite happy living here?"

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