“It was very wicked of you,” she repeated, in a voice pitched in a low key, no doubt out of consideration for the sleeping watch dog.
“Yes,” he said, “I am a bad lot; I am not fit to be here with you. I have been dining at my club; but how you knew it, I can’t conceive. And—and——”
“Don’t tell me any more,” said Lady Bell. “I am sorry that you should have been run over, and I hope you are not hurt. That—that is blood running down your face. Why do you not wipe it off? I can’t bear it.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jack, and he fumbled for his pocket-handkerchief, which at that moment was lying under the seat in the billiard-room.
“Here, take this,” said Lady Bell, and she put her own delicate lace-edged one in his hand.
Jack mopped his forehead diligently.
“Is it all off?” he asked.
“No, it keeps running,” replied Lady Bell, with a little thrill of horror. “I believe you are much hurt.”
“I’m not; I give you my word,” said Jack. “There—no, I’ll keep it until it’s washed.” And he thrust the delicate cobweb into his pocket.
Lady Bell leaned back, but her eyes wandered now and then to the handsome face, pale through all its tan.