“What on earth are you doing?”
He laughed gayly.
“Good morning! Hobbling, I believe. Don’t I do it nicely?”
“You—you’ve hurt yourself?”
He took the crutch from under his arm and looked at it admiringly.
“Oh, no—but you have.”
“I! Oh, yes. I forgot. I don’t think I’ll need it at all. I—” She started up and tried to put her foot down and then sank back in dismay. “It seems to still hurt me a little,” she said quietly.
“Of course it does. You don’t get over that sort of thing in a minute. It will be better when the blood gets into it. Meanwhile,” he handed her the stick, “you must use this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute, so if you feel like making a toilet——”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she glanced around her at the patines of gold the sun had laid over the floor of their breakfast-room and asked the time.
“Half past seven.”