“Who is she?” inquired Miss Challoner.
“My mother. Come and bind up your handiwork. I’m spoiling old Plançon’s carpet.”
Miss Challoner came promptly and took the handkerchief he held out to her. “Are you sure it is not serious?” she asked anxiously. “It bleeds dreadfully.”
“Quite sure. I observe that the sight of blood don’t turn you queasy.”
“I am not such a fool, sir.” Miss Challoner began to roll up his sleeve. “I fear the lace is ruined, my lord. Am I hurting you?”
“Not at all,” said Vidal politely.
Miss Challoner made a pad of her own handkerchief, and bound the wound up tightly with my lord’s.
“Thank you,” he said when this operation was over. “Now if you will help me to put on my coat again, we will talk.”
“Do you think you had better put it on?” asked Miss Challoner doubtfully. “Perhaps it may start to bleed again.”
“My good girl, it’s the veriest scratch!” said Vidal.