Jill bit her lip and walked swiftly across the room to the fireplace. There were sticks and paper in a cupboard beside it, and, getting some out, she knelt down before the hearth and commenced laying the fire anew.
“I beg your pardon,” she said somewhat crestfallen. “It happened, I suppose, through my being out so much longer than I intended; but that was quite an accident, and not my fault at all. I hope you will excuse all this inconvenience.”
“Don’t mention it,” he exclaimed, “the inconvenience is greater for you than for me.”
He glanced round as he spoke and watched her while she began to arrange the sticks.
Something struck him as unusual about her, and after a time he discovered what it was, she was working with one hand, the right one, and on the left wrist was a very neat and very new looking bandage. In a moment all his resentment against her vanished, the caricature was forgotten, and with it her former ungraciousness of manner. He recalled how pale and weary she had looked on entering, and how he had endeavoured to embarrass her by showing her what he had found. He rose and joined her where she knelt upon the hearth.
“Excuse me,” he began in a slightly apologetic tone, “I see that you have hurt your wrist; won’t you let me do that for you?”
“Thank you,” she answered, “but I can manage very well; it is nothing—much.”
The much was a concession to conscience, and was thrown in with an unwilling jerk at the end. Then he did a very bold thing; he went down on his knees beside her and took the sticks out of her hand.
“I’m a don hand at building up fires,” he said; “there’s never any difficulty about my fires burning.”
“I should think not,” replied Jill, watching the reckless way in which he threw on the sticks; “a fire that wouldn’t burn with all that wood ought to be ashamed of itself. Mr St. John, please; you’ll ruin me.”