Thane at that moment realized that she had witnessed the fight. Next he became painfully conscious of himself. He felt a burning sensation from his middle to the roots of his hair; and as he rose and went looking in the grass for his shirt his movements were awkward, almost clumsy. Having found his shirt he walked a long way off to put it on. When he returned he had the Cornishman’s shirt. That hulk of vanity was beginning to stir as from a deep sleep. Thane helped him to his feet, set him in the path with his face averted, put the garment in his hands, and earnestly desired him to disappear.
Then he stood looking down at Agnes. A moment before they had been as free and natural as children. Now they were false, self-embarrassed.
“How is it now?” he asked.
“Better,” she said.
Silence.
“Maybe you could rub it.”
“It’s getting all right,” she said.
More silence.
“My name is Alexander.”
“My name is Agnes,” she replied.