She puts a wrong construction on this—as I had anticipated.
“I don't believe you,” she says. “I am sure you must have said these things before.”
“If you think my words are false, how can I help myself?” I ask, with the air of one impaled upon an ignited stake, yet resigned to this position. “I dare not dispute with you, even to save my character, for fear you become angry and leave me.”
She smiles again, gives me another dazzling glance, and then, with the elusiveness of woman, turns the subject to this wonderful piece of work that she is doing.
“What do you think of this flower?” she asks.
To obtain the critical reply she desires entails her coming to the side of the couch and holding one edge of the work while I hold the other. Then I endeavor to hold both edges and somehow find myself holding her hand as well. It happens so naturally that she takes no notice of this occurrence but stands there smiling down at me and talking of this flower while I look up at her face and talk also of the flower. In fact, she seems first conscious of that chance encounter of hands when a step is heard in the passage. Then, indeed, she withdraws to her seat and the very faintest rise in color might be distinguished by one who had acquired the habit of looking at her closely.
It was Dick Shafthead who entered, in riding-breeches and top-boots. I may say, by-the-way, that he had not been reduced to a bicycle. On the contrary, he made an excellent display upon a horse for one who affected to be too poor to ride.
“My horse went lame,” he explained, “so I thought I'd come back and have a look at the patient.”
From his look I could sec that he was unprepared to find me already provided with a nurse. Not that it was the first time she had been here—but then I did not happen to have mentioned that to Dick. In a few moments Amy left us and he looked with a quizzical smile first at the door through which she had gone and then at me.
“You take it turn about, I see,” he said. “I didn't know the arrangement or I shouldn't have interrupted.”