"Ah, oh!" I cried, wincing as if she hurt me at the next touch. "Please be careful. I can't bear pain a bit."
"Men never can," she retorted. "I'm sure I scarcely touched you. But if it's as bad as that, I'll be careful," she added, earnestly; and the little farce proceeded, she unwinding the clumsy bandage I had put on, and I wincing and "ah-ing" and grimacing, until the hand was uncovered, and the fingers—bloodless, of course, from the ligature—were exposed to view.
"What's the matter with them?" she said, examining them closely.
"It came on suddenly." I explained. "And now for the cloth massage. Gently."
"What is cloth massage?"
"Why, massage with cloth, of course. Wait, I have it;" and without more ado about nothing, I thrust my arm through the sleeve of my coat, and held out my hand to shake hers. "The most wonderful cure on record. Thank you so much."
Mercy burst out laughing, but Mrs. Curwen coloured with vexation.
"What does it mean? You've been fooling," she cried. "I call it horrid of you;" and as she turned away I saw tears of vexation start to her eyes. Then I repented.
"Forgive me. Honestly, I am sorry and did not mean to vex you. There is a meaning to all this, and some day I'll tell you both, and the tale will surprise you, probably."
"I'll forgive you if you're going to stay and take us nut, and then come back to dinner. Your friend Mr. Mayhew is coming. We're going to the Opera. The young King is to be there, and the Queen. It's to be a real gala show."