But by great good fortune young Wharton called on Madam Wetherill the next morning to inquire about the mishap to Primrose and found her none the worse except a bandaged wrist.
"Is it really true that this fire-eating young captain is—what shall I say? A relative, since this pretty flower is your niece, is she not? And Polly was so taken with him, but for his red coat, that when I began to talk of him I found I had fallen into a hornets' nest. And now, Madam Wetherill, what shall I do? Some hot and hasty words passed between us. Can I safely show the white feather? For no doubt your captain is a fine shot, and, truth to tell, I have some other plans for my life. Since he is even half-brother to Miss Primrose I should not want to shoot him."
Primrose looked up with languid sweetness. She felt rather sore and inert from the shock.
"Why, were you going to shoot him?" she asked.
"We had some words. You know I ran over you. It was very rude and careless. And it might have been much worse, and then I should really have been guilty."
"But you caught the ball! I saw it as I went down. I should not have been so intent and moved a little. But I had not taken off my skates. Brother Phil wanted me to, but I was quite determined to have my own way. And so I went over more easily. It would be very cruel and wicked to shoot each other on account of me."
"And silly, too," said Madam Wetherill sharply. "I shall take the case in my own hands, and arrange matters," laughingly. "I think Captain Nevitt was unmindful for a moment. And there is no great harm done but a sprained wrist."
"And if you had shot Phil——"
"Well, what would you have done?"
"I should never, never want to see you or to think of you again!"