I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying:
“Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do—you ought—I don’t feel safe otherwise.”
“Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine dark eyes.
“Yes—come along.”
“Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.”
I took her arm and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine and leaned on me.
“It is just like Lorna Doone,” she said as if she enjoyed it.
“But you will let me do it,” said I, referring to the cauterising.
“You make me; but I shall feel—ugh, I daren’t think of it. Get me some of those berries.”
I plucked a few bunches of guelder-rose fruits, transparent, ruby berries. She stroked them softly against her lips and cheek, caressing them. Then she murmured to herself: