"What is?" she asked.
"Why, how fast you sew!"
"Yes?" she said, as automatically as she stitched. "Your wound is quite all right? No danger of infection?"
"I don't blame you!" he burst out. His tone had turned sad and urgent.
She looked up quickly, with the flare of a frown. His remark had brought her out of her pose and she became vivid and real.
"Blame me!" she demanded, sharply, as one who flies to arms.
But she met a new phase—neither banter, nor fancy, nor unvarying coolness in the face of fire. He was all contrition and apology. Must she be the audience to some fresh exhibition of his versatility?
"I do not blame you for feeling the way that you do," he said.
"How do you know how I feel?" she asked; and as far as he could see into her eyes there was nothing but the flash of sword-points.
"I don't. I only know how I think you feel—how you might well feel," he answered delicately. "After Pete let his gun drop in the store I should not have named terms for an encounter. I should have turned to the law for protection for the few hours that I had to remain in town."