"You'd better sit down," he said. "We've heaps to talk over yet, more than you've a notion of. And if we're to have a row, let's get it over in the open—far less dangerous. Never get to cover in a thunderstorm. I know what you want." He had watched her fumbling unavailingly in the bag and pocket and had chuckled. He knew his Alwynne. He produced a clean silk handkerchief and dangled it before her. She clutched at it with undignified haste.
"'Thank you,' first," he said, holding it firmly. A moment victory hung in the balance. Then—
"Oh! Oh, thank you," said Alwynne, with fine unconcern, and secured it. Their eyes met. It was impossible not to smile.
"At the same time," remarked Alwynne, a little later, "you've no right to talk to me like that, Roger, whatever you choose to think. You're not my cousin."
"I'm Elsbeth's. It strikes me she needs defending."
Alwynne laughed.
"You know I'm awfully fond of Elsbeth. You know I am. I am a beast sometimes to her, you're quite right—but she doesn't really need defending. Honestly."
"Not from you, I know. But frankly, without wanting to be rude to your friend—I think she makes you careless of Elsbeth's feelings. Elsbeth was awfully hurt this week, and she's the sort of dear one hates to see hurt."
Alwynne looked at him wistfully.
"Roger," she said hesitatingly, "suppose some one were unkind to me—hurt me—hurt me badly, very often, almost on purpose—would you defend me? Would you care at all?"