Why did Argyl want him—to-night? He put his fingers to his cheek where Brayley's fist had cut into the flesh. How could he go to her like this? He was on the verge of telling Lonesome Pete that he could not go, of framing some excuse, any excuse. But instead he closed his lips without speaking, picked up his hat and went straight toward the house.
She was waiting for him at the little summer-house upon the front lawn. He saw the white of her lacy gown, the flash of her arms as he came nearer, her outstretched hand as he came to her side. With his hat caught under his right arm he put out his left hand to take hers.
"You were good to come so soon," she was saying.
"It was good to come," he rejoined, warmly. "You know how glad I am for every opportunity I have to see you."
"What is the matter with your hand?" she asked, quickly. "Your right hand?"
"I hurt it," he answered, easily. "Nothing serious. It will be well in a day or two."
"How did you hurt it?" she persisted.
"Really, Miss Crawford," he retorted, trying to laugh away the seriousness of her tone, "there are so many ways for a man to damage his epidermis in this sort of work—"
She was standing close to him, looking intently up into his face through the gathering darkness.
"Tell me—why did you do it?"