"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
"Well, then, let me tell you. I was trying you. I didn't really want to know how you got that bruise, because—well, because, you see, I knew beforehand. I've heard the whole story. You stood up for your deformed friend and thrashed the man who was coward enough to strike him. That is the correct version, I think, isn't it? Ah, I see it is. Well, Paddy the Lasher, the man you fought, is one of our hands. I had only just returned from making inquiries about him when you turned up this morning. I like your modesty, and if you'll let me, I think I'll shake hands with you on it!"
Without knowing exactly why he did it, Ellison rose and gravely shook hands with her. In these good clothes his old manner, in a measure, came back to him, and he felt able to do things with a grace that had long been foreign to his actions. He sat down again, drank off his beer, and turned once more to her.
"How can I thank you enough for your goodness to me? I have never enjoyed a meal so much in my life."
"I am glad of that. I think you look better than you did an hour ago. It must be awful to be so hungry."
"It is, and I am more than grateful to you for relieving it. I hope you will believe that."
"I think I do. And now about your friend. Don't you think you had better go and look after him? I have told the cook to send some food across to the hut. Will you see that he eats it?"
"Of course I will. I'll go at once."
He rose and went towards the door. She had risen too, and now stood with one hand upon the mantelpiece, the other toying with the keys hanging from her belt. The fresh breeze played through the palm fronds beyond the veranda, and whisked the dry sand on to the clean white boards. He wanted to set one matter right before he left.
"As I said just now, I'm afraid I don't appear to very great advantage in your eyes," he remarked.