"It must be your mustard sitting-room, after all," said Antony. So up the stairs we went. Here, at all events, the fire blazed, and the room glowed with brilliancy.
Roy was lying on the rug and seemed enchanted to see us.
"Is it really hurting you?" I said, hurriedly.
"No, not hurting—only a stupid little scratch." And he undid his shirt-cuff and turned up his sleeve.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Oh, I am so sorry!"
One of the shots had grazed the skin and made a nasty cut, which was plastered up with sticking-plaster and clumsily tied with a handkerchief.
"My servant is not a genius at this sort of thing. Will you do it better, Comtesse?"
I bound the handkerchief as neatly as I could, and, for some unexplained reason, as once before at Harley, my heart beat in my throat. I could feel his eyes watching me, although my head was bent.
I did not look up until the arm was finished. His shirt was of the finest fine. There was some subtle scent about his coat that pleased me. A faint perfume, as of very good cigars—nothing sweet and effeminate, like a woman. It intensely appealed to me. I felt—I felt—oh, I do not know at all what my feelings meant. I tried to think of grandmamma, and how she would have told me to behave when I was nervous. I had never been so nervous in my life before.
"You—you will not shoot to-morrow?" I faltered.