He leaped to her, and held her tight with her arm against his breast, and beat out the fire with his hands. He dressed the burn and bandaged it with cool, professional dexterity, trembling a little, taking pain from her pain.
"Why didn't you call out?" he said.
"I didn't want you to know."
"You'd have been burnt sooner?"
He had slung her arm in a scarf; and, as he tied the knot on her shoulder, his face was brought close to hers. She turned her head and her eyes met his.
"I'd have let my whole body burn," she whispered, "sooner than hurt—your hands."
His hands dropped from her shoulder. He thrust them into his pockets out of her sight.
She followed him into the outer room, struggling against her sense of his recoil.
"If you had a body like mine," she said, "you'd be glad to get rid of it on any terms." She wondered if he saw through her pitiable attempt to call back the words that had flung themselves upon him.
"There's nothing wrong with your body," he answered coldly.