“When you were very ill.”
He stood closer to her, very close.
“Which was the arm that bled for me? May I look at it? There was a bruise.”
“Have you not forgotten that trifle? There is the faintest possible mark of it left.”
“I wish to see.”
She gently defended the arm, but he made it so much a matter of earnest to see the bruise of the old Election missile on her fair arm, that, with a pardonable soft blush, to avoid making much of it herself, she turned her sleeve a little above the wrist. He took her hand.
“It was for me!”
“It was quite an accident: no harm was intended.”
“But it was in my cause—for me!”
“Indeed, Captain Beauchamp...”