“I cut him over the legs,” said Mr. Stone. “I do not regret it”; and he walked on to his room.
Hilary turned to the little model.
“It was a little dog. The man kicked it, and Mr. Stone hit him. He broke his stick. There were several men; they threatened us.” She looked up at Hilary. “I-I was frightened. Oh! Mr. Dallison, isn't he funny?”
“All heroes are funny,” murmured Hilary.
“He wanted to hit them again, after his stick was broken. Then a policeman came, and they all ran away.”
“That was quite as it should be,” said Hilary. “And what did you do?”
Perceiving that she had not as yet made much effect, the little model cast down her eyes.
“I shouldn't have been frightened if you had been there!”
“Heavens!” muttered Hilary. “Mr. Stone is far more valiant than I.”
“I don't think he is,” she replied stubbornly, and again looked up at him.