“Take care, Antony!” she cried brightly, as he was about to risk it and jump. “Let Dr. Traherne give you a hand.”
“Yes!” Traherne echoed. He already had gained the lower ground, surefooted and cool.
“Hang it all,” Crespin shook his wife’s suggestion and the other man’s proffered assistance off with a testy impatience that spurred his own faulty physical courage, “I’m not such a crock as all that.” He jumped as he spoke, jumped heavily, but landed safely enough.
Lucilla gave a little sigh of relief; she scarcely could have told herself how far it was sincere, how far acting—her wifehood was so permeated by acting now.
Traherne turned away from Antony, and a something of pity passed across the younger man’s eyes; he understood, as she did not, that Lucilla’s words had hurt Crespin—and he pitied him. He still judged Antony more fairly than Mrs. Crespin did, more fairly than she could, or many women can.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Crespin?” There was just enough concern in his voice and in his glance, and not an iota too much. Less would have been a boorishness, more must have been a caress. “Not very much shaken?”
“Not a bit!” she laughed.
“It was a nasty bump,” the pilot said ruefully.
“You managed splendidly,” the woman defended heartily.
“Come on, Lu,” Crespin interrupted; “sit on that ledge, and I can swing you down.”