After the affair of last night one might fancy that he would have shown something of it in his manner.
Not a bit.
“I didn’t expect to come across you on the road,” said he. “Won’t you speak to me—are you angry with me?”
“It’s not a question of being angry,” said Phyl, stiffly.
She walked on and he walked beside her, silent for a moment.
“If you mean about that affair last night,” said he, “I’m sorry I lost my temper—but he hit me—you don’t understand what that means to me.”
“You tried to—”
“Kill him, I did, and only for you I’d have done it. You can’t understand it all. I can scarcely understand it myself. He hit me.”
“I don’t think you knew what you were doing,” said Phyl.
“I most surely did not. I was rousted out of myself. I reckon he didn’t know what he was doing either when he struck. He ought to have known I was not the person to hit. I’ll show you, just stand before me for a moment.”