She started out of her dream.
"I beg your pardon," he was saying, "but I've caught my finger, like a fool. I can't do anything. Can you come here?"
"Of course." She stepped out of the boat. The water in the lock had hardly begun to subside. She took the painter and, holding it, went to him, Charles following with cheerful bounds. The sluice had slipped a little and its iron pin held his finger firmly clipped against the tarred wood below.
She did not cry out nor tremble nor do any of the things a silly woman might have done. "Tell me what to do," was all she said.
He told her how to hold the crowbar, how to raise the sluice so that the finger might be released. She did it all exactly and carefully. When the finger was released he wrapped his handkerchief around it.
"Does it hurt?" she said.
And he said, "Yes."
"You must put it in the water," she said. "You can't reach it here. Come into the boat."
He obeyed her. She came and sat by him in the stern—sat there quite silently. No "I'm so sorry!" or "Can't I do anything?" Her hand was on Charles's collar. His eyes were closed. His finger was badly crushed; the blood stained the water, and presently she saw it. She kept her eyes fixed on the spreading splash of red.
"You haven't fainted, have you?" she said at last. "It's getting very dark."