"Yes, I am better; I am very well, thank you. What happened? Did I faint?"
"Yes! you fainted, just as we came up. They wanted to pour water over you, but I always think it's such a shame, in books, to spoil their clothes, and you have such pretty clothes. So I wouldn't let them. It wasn't Peggy, it was a lot of fool cooks and things."
"Did something hurt me?" asked Margaret, vaguely, still feeling that she was somebody else making friendly inquiries about herself.
"Yes, I—I pinched you, you dear, sweet, pretty—at least, I don't mean that! at least I do mean it, every word, only highly improper under the circumstances, but I don't care so long as you are better."
Making a strong effort, Margaret sat up and looked about her. She was still on the Silverfield lawn, but some one had drawn her away from the neighborhood of the burning house, now a shapeless mass, though still burning fiercely, and had pillowed her head on a rolled-up coat. Her companion was in his shirt-sleeves, so it was evident whose coat it was.
As she gazed at the blazing ruins, memory came back in a flood.
"Grace!" she cried, wildly. "Where is Grace?"
"Safe," said Gerald, quickly. "Safe and sound. Not a hair singed, though it sounds impossible. Most astonishing person I ever saw in my life. Came down the rope like a foretopman, hung all over with jewels: brooches, chains, and owches, you know,—Scripture,—kind of rope-walking Tiffany. You never saw such a thing in your life. Hadn't much more than touched the ground, when the roof fell in. Standing luck of the British Army, I call that!"
"Oh, thank God! thank God! but where is she? where are they all?"
"Mostly gone to take the fainted girl home. She didn't come to just right; choked with the smoke, Hugh thought. Phil and Peggy are carrying her, and Miss Wolfe giving moral support. Hugh has gone for the nearest doctor. The fool cooks have gone in search of their wits, I suppose; they didn't seem to be anywhere round here."