"I--I don't believe I am," she said. "My heel caught on a step and I fell. It was so clumsy of me. I might have been badly hurt if you had not caught me as you did."
"These steps are so uncertain," he said, scowling at them. "Somebody'll get hurt here some day. But, really, are you quite sure you are, not hurt? Didn't you twist your--your--"
"Ankle? Not in the least. See! I can stand on both of them. I am not hurt at all. Let me thank you," she said, smiling into his eyes as she moved away.
"May I assist you?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, no; I thank you, Mr. Veath. I would not have my preserver perform the office of a crutch. I am not hurt in the least. Good-afternoon."
Hugh, disconcerted and piqued by her confusion of names, answered her wondrous smile with one that reflected bewildered admiration, and finally managed to send after her:
"I wouldn't have lost the opportunity for the world."
That evening he was sitting out on deck in contemplative silence enjoying his after-dinner smoke. Farther down were Grace and Veath. Suddenly turning in their direction, Hugh perceived that they were not there; nor were they anywhere in sight. He was pondering over their whereabouts, his eyes still on the vacant chairs, when a voice tender and musical assailed his ears--a voice which he had heard but once before.
"Good-evening, Mr. Veath."
He wheeled about and found himself staring at the smiling face of the young lady who had fallen into his arms but a few hours before.