"Well," said John Andros after a minute, "I guess I'll say good night."
"Good night."
Limping slightly and with his clothes over his arm, John Andros turned away. The moonlight was still bright as he left the dark patch of trampled ground and walked over the intervening lawn. Down at the station, half a mile away, he could hear the rumble of the seven o'clock train.
"But you must have been crazy," cried Edith brokenly. "I thought you were going to fix it all up there and shake hands. That's why I went away."
"Did you want us to fix it up?" "Of course not, I never want to see them again. But I thought of course that was what you were going to do." She was touching the bruises on his neck and back with iodine as he sat placidly in a hot bath. "I'm going to get the doctor," she said insistently. "You may be hurt internally."
He shook his head. "Not a chance," he answered. "I don't want this to get all over town."
"I don't understand yet how it all happened."
"Neither do I." He smiled grimly. "I guess these baby parties are pretty rough affairs."
"Well, one thing—" suggested Edith hopefully, "I'm certainly glad we have beefsteak in the house for to-morrow's dinner."
"Why?"