She limped by his side through the brake, and he talked on. It seemed to her afterwards that she had never heard so much talk in her life. Singular talk too—as if to himself—no hint of her in it—no affected gallantry or solicitude—no consciousness of her presence, not even of her contact; and yet, when she stumbled and clung to his shoulder, he took her round the waist and supported her whole weight with his arm, and so held her until he had her safely by his fire.
He made her sit down upon his rug, took off her shoe and told her to take her stocking off while he got a rag. She obeyed without question, and presently had her ankle in a bandage, which smelt aromatic and stung her, but gave strength and was pleasant. She was very grateful, and entirely at her ease. “I think I’m glad that I was afraid of you,” she told him. “Do you know that I’ve never been so taken care of in my life?” He was putting her shoe on at the moment, pulling tight the laces. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You are the sort that was made to be taken care of—abominably feminine. The odds are that you’ll put my picture out of my head for at least three days—so I shall have to stop here until it comes back again.”
“Then I’m very sorry—” she began, but stopped, as if puzzled.
“You need not be. I shall be perfectly happy. And it will give you a chance of biking out here to report yourself.”
Was this an invitation? Did he—? No; it was never done in that tone.
“I shall certainly come,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll show me the picture. Are you an artist?”
He nodded, busy preparing a dish for the fire, a little silver dish, into which he was breaking eggs. “I’m going to make an omelette; you are to eat half of it. I’m an artist in omelettes, I do believe. Yes, I’m a sort of artist; a bad one, you know. But we’re all bad unless we’re the best of all—and there’s only one best. However, it’s all the same. You have your fun.”
“But—” She was looking about her with animation—“But where do you—? I mean, do you—?”
He chuckled, but mostly with his black eyes. “I know what you mean. Everybody asks the same questions, and breaks them off at the same point. I’ll tell you. I live here, at this moment. I do travel in that cart—and this is my tent—and that ghost over there is my white horse—and hulloa! you’ve woken Bingo.” A lithe grey dog came delicately forward into the light, with lowly head and lowly wagging tail. He was like a terrier, with hound’s ears, soft and sleek and silver grey. He sniffed at Mary’s dress and feet, sneezed over the bandage, and, edging up, put a cool nose against her neck, and then a warm tongue.
“Oh, what a darling!” she cried softly, and made much of him.