"Yes … Oh, you've been hurt!" she exclaimed, noting the gash upon his forehead. A strip of tissue-paper (in lieu of court-plaster) lay soaking upon the wound: a trick learned in the old days when razors grew dull over night.
"Hurt? Oh, I ran against something when I wasn't looking," he explained lamely. Then he added eagerly: "I did not know that you were on this gallery. First time I've put up at a hotel in years." It did not serve.
"You have been fighting! Your hand!"
He looked at the hand dumbly. How keen her eyes were.
"I know!"
"You do?" inanely.
"Was it … Mallow?"
"Yes."
"Did you … whip him?"
"I … did," imitating her tone and hesitance. It was the wisest thing he could have done, for it relaxed the nerves of both of them.