“There will come no other time. You dared me to it. I was stupid enough to forget—for a moment.”
“Forget what?”
“That there was a girl in Elmsdale worth fifty of you—an English girl, not a mongrel!”
It was a boyish retort, feeble, unfair, but the most cutting thing he could think of. The words were spoken in heat; he would have recalled them at once if that were possible, but Angèle seized the opening with glee.
“That’s you!” she cried, stabbing her rival with a finger. “Parbleu! I’m a mixture, half English, half German, but really bad French!”
“Please don’t drag me into your interesting conversation,” said Elsie with bitter politeness.
“I am sorry I said that,” put in the boy. “I might have had two friends. Now I have lost both.”
He turned. His intent was to quit the place forthwith. Elsie caught his arm with an alarmed cry.
“Martin,” she almost screamed, “look at your left hand. It is covered with blood!”
Surprised as she, he raised his hand. Blood was streaming down the fingers.