"Tonbridge!" I repeated.
"But he is not the man to—to run away," said she doubtfully—"even from you."
"No, indeed!" said I, shaking my head, "he certainly did not run away, but circumstances—and a stone, were too much—even for him."
"A stone?"
"Upon which he—happened to fall, and strike his head—very fortunately for me."
"Was he—much hurt?"
"Stunned only," I answered.
She was still kneeling beside my chair, but now she sat back, and turned to stare into the fire. And, as she sat, I noticed how full and round and white her arms were, for her sleeves were rolled high, and that the hand, which yet held the sponge, was likewise very white, neither big nor little, a trifle wide, perhaps, but with long, slender fingers. Presently, with a sudden gesture, she raised her head and looked at me again—a long, searching look.
"Who are you?" she asked suddenly.
"My name," said I, "is Peter."