He said, speaking as though he had hardly recovered full possession of his senses: "I—I don't know.... Something hit me.... I think I've been walking about for a long time.... I'm all right now, though."
Her hands were feeling the bandages round his head.
"Who bandaged you?"
"I—I don't—I don't know." (After all, 'I don't know' was always a safe answer.)
She led him into the red-tinted drawing-room. As he entered it he suddenly felt the onrush of depression, as if, once within these four walls, half the strength of his armour would be gone.
"We must have Howard to see you to-morrow morning," she said, her voice trembling. "It was absolutely disgraceful! I could hear them from here—I wondered whatever was happening." And she added, with just the suspicion of tartness: "I'd no idea you'd ever let them rag you like that."
"Let them rag me?" he exclaimed. Then, remembering his part, he stammered: "I—I don't know what—what happened. Something—somebody perhaps—hit me, I think—that was all. It wasn't—it wasn't the ragging. I could have—managed that."
Suddenly she said: "Whose mackintosh is that you're wearing?"
The tone of her voice was sharp, acrid, almost venomous.
He started, felt himself blushing, but hoped that in the reddish glow it would not be observed. "I—I don't know," he stammered, still playing for safety.