“It’s nothing,” he said coolly. “I must have opened a deep cut by climbing the swing.”
“Quelle horreur!” exclaimed Angèle. “I hate blood!”
“I’m awfully sorry—” began Martin.
“Nonsense! Come at once to the kitchen and have it bound up,” said Elsie.
They hurried off together. Angèle did not offer to accompany them. Martin glanced at Elsie through the corner of his eye. Her set mouth had relaxed somewhat. Anger was yielding to sympathy.
“I was fighting another wildcat, so was sure to get scratched,” he whispered.
“You needn’t have kissed it, anyhow,” she snapped.
“That, certainly, was a mistake,” he admitted.
She made no reply. Once within the house she removed the stained bandage without flinching from the ugly sight of half-healed scars, one of which was bleeding profusely. Cold water soon stopped the outflow, and one of the maids procured some strips of linen, with which Elsie bound the wound tightly.
They had a moment to themselves in recrossing the hall. Martin ventured to touch the girl’s shoulder.