“Good gracious,” said he, “she’s pretty! Pretty? she’s beautiful!”
She was. That such beauty should so easily have hidden itself behind a green-tinted mask, with sunken eyelid, seemed a miracle to the ingenuous bookworm.
“You’re better now,” said he with feverish banality. “Give me your hands—so—now can—yes, that’s right—here, this chair is the only comfortable one——”
She sank into the chair, and waved away the more whisky which he eagerly proffered. He stood looking at her with respectful solicitude.
After a few moments she stretched her arms like a sleepy child, yawned, and then suddenly broke into laughter. It had a strange sound. No one had laughed in that house since the wet night when Mr Brent took possession of it, and he had never been able to bring himself to believe that any one had ever laughed there before.
Then he remembered having heard that women have hysterical fits as well as fainting fits, and he said eagerly: “Oh don’t! It’s all right—you were faint—the heat or something——”
“Did I faint?” she asked with interest. “I never fainted before. But—oh—yes—I remember. It was rather horrible. The quarry tumbled down almost on me, and I just stopped short—in time—and I came round by this road because the other’s stopped up, and I was so glad when I saw the house. Thank you so much; it must have been an awful bother. I think I had better start soon——”
“No, you don’t; you’re not fit to ride alone yet,” said he to himself. Aloud he said: “You said something about a puncture—when you are better I’ll mend it. And, look here—have you had any lunch?”
“No,” said she.
“Then—if you’ll allow me.” He left the room, and presently returned with the tray set for his own lunch; then he fetched from the larder everything he could lay hands on: half a cold chicken, some cold meat pudding, a pot of jam, bottled beer. He set these confusedly on the table. “Now,” he said, “come and try to eat.”