The Philosopher’s brow clouded.
“What’s that to do with it?” he demanded, sharply.
“Well!—the poor soldiers were starved and frozen to death,” she said, “and you are only scratched by a rose thorn. Of course the march to Moscow happened a long time ago—but that doesn’t matter!—you ought to feel it just as much—so much that your scratch should seem nothing but purest joy if you had the right sort of sentiment.”
A reluctant smile overspread his face and presently shone so broadly that in spite of his being a Philosopher he became almost good-looking.
“Don’t play!” he urged. “I’m in earnest—I am really!”
“About what?” she asked, mirthfully.
“About the scratch—and—perhaps—about you,” he said, suddenly, moved by an impulse he could not understand. “I don’t know whether you come before the scratch or after. You see I wanted to get you a rose—”
“Most kind of you,” she murmured, pretending not to be aware that his arm had somehow got round her waist. “Why?”
“I don’t know why,” he said. “Oh, that scratch! Really, joking apart, it’s very painful!”
She unbound the handkerchief and looked at the damage critically. Suddenly, and with a fleeting blush, she stooped and kissed it.