“You have bathed?” she said, smiling, and looking at his damp, ruffled black hair. She shrank from his eyes, but he was quite unconscious.
“You have not bathed!” he said; then bent to kiss her. She smelt the brine in his hair.
“No; I bathe later,” she replied. “But what—”
Hesitating, she touched the towel, then looked up at him anxiously.
“It is blood?” she said.
“I grazed my thigh—nothing at all,” he replied.
“Are you sure?”
He laughed.
“The towel looks bad enough,” she said.
“It’s an alarmist,” he laughed.