“The fact is, I had the misfortune, that is the delight to receive the wound”—Miss Candituft unconsciously tore a camellia to bits as she listened—“in the most beautiful society; and in that society I said to myself, it shall be healed. When I say healed”—
“It will be quite well to-morrow,” said Agatha very earnestly; and now she cast an eye at the wound, measuring its smallness, and with a pair of scissors cut the plaister to the diameter of the hurt. When she had delicately rounded a piece the size of a shilling; trimming and trimming it as though it was to her impossible to make too nice an adjustment; she gently laid it on the fingers of the baronet, at the same time, with the prettiest grace and humility, dropping a curtsey.
Sir Arthur Hodmadod looked smilingly at Agatha, and then at the round black patch lying on his fingers.—“My dear madam, you must breathe upon it.”
“Oh dear no! Not at all! Certainly not,” cried Agatha.
Sir Arthur, holding the little patch by the extreme edges of his finger and thumb-nail, presented it to the lips of Agatha. “Breathe, my dear madam; when I say breathe, I mean waft a—a—”
“I couldn’t think of such a thing,” cried Agatha, retreating.
“The whole charm—the spell—when I say the charm, I mean the medicine—is in the breath that warms it. My dear Agatha,” and Sir Arthur attempted to encircle the timid creature’s waist.
“How very foolish!” cried Agatha, still shrinking. “How very foolish!” And then she made her little mouth into the smallest bud, and blew quickly twice or thrice. “How very foolish!”
“Now, I may call the cure almost complete,” said Sir Arthur, and he placed the patch upon the wound. “Upon my life! Beautiful! Delicious!” and he cast his eyes rapturously towards the ceiling.
“Has it done you so much good already, Sir Arthur? I’m so glad! Such a simple thing, too.”