"You wronged me just now," she says, in a low voice: "you had an evil thought about me! But not now, I think," regarding him earnestly. "You have gone over it all again in your own mind, and you understand now you misjudged me."
"You are quite right in all you say; I did misjudge you. I have discovered my error. You will forgive me?"
"I suppose so." She is looking down now, and is tapping the ground impatiently with her foot.
"You ought," says Fabian, quietly. "To misjudge one's neighbor is one of the commonest failings of mankind."
There is meaning in his tone. She acknowledges unwillingly the fact that she comprehends this meaning by a sign, silent but perceptible: she colors deeply, and, still looking down, continues her tattoo upon the oaken flooring of the corridor.
"You are not very humble," she says at length, "even now, when you have had to demand my pardon."
"Am I not?" says Fabian, with a partly suppressed sigh. "I should be. Forgive me that, too, and—" He pauses to draw his breath quickly, as if in pain. At this she lifts her head, and something she sees in his expression tells her the truth.
"You are hurt," she says, hastily, going nearer to him. "Where?—how?"
There is deep, unrestrained anxiety in her tone.
"My arm," confesses Fabian, who is, indeed, suffering greatly, laying his left hand upon his right arm, high up above the elbow.