"Nothing to speak of," said Percival, twisting his handkerchief tighter around his throbbing wrist.
"But you don't mind my being proud of you, do you?" asked Bobby as the elevator stopped at his floor. "When I see a man show courage like that, I just feel as if—as if I'd like to squeeze him."
Percival's left hand shot out and caught hers to his lips.
"Why, Mr. Hascombe!" she cried "What's the matter with your arm? No, I mean the other one."
"A mere scratch."
"But your sleeve's cut, and the handkerchief is all blood-stained. Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
"I assure you it is nothing. Quite all right in the morning. Breakfast with you at nine. Happy dreams!"
Bobby was not to be so easily put off. She insisted upon following him out of the elevator and inspecting the wound,
"Why, it's dreadful!" she cried. "And it must have been bleeding like this for five minutes! Quick! Where's your room?"
"But really, my dear girl, I can't allow this. You must get back into the lift straight away and go up to your room."