"There!" she said at last, seating herself lightly on the edge of the bed. "Now I will tell you—you are in a place called Poole Farm. Does that help you?"
"Poole Farm? Yes," he said, reflectively. "I was sketching near there. Did I have a fall? I have managed to smash myself somehow. How did I do it?"
"Don't you remember?" asked Wyn, earnestly.
He lifted his uninjured hand and passed it over his forehead. It came in contact with more bandages. He felt them speculatively.
"Broken head, broken arm, broken rib," he remarked, drily. "Broken mainspring would almost have been more simple. How did it happen, now? How did it happen? I can't understand."
"You were painting, in the lane by the wayside," said the girl, suggestively. "A picture with a warm key of color, and a little bit of the corner of the farm-house coming into it—evening sky—horizon line broken on the left by clump of ash-trees."
"Yes, I know. I recollect that," he said. "I walked over from Edge Combe in rather a hot sun. I felt a little queer. But a sunstroke couldn't break one's bones, Wyn. I must have had a fall, eh?"
"You fell from your camp-stool to the grass," she returned, "but that could hardly have hurt you to such an extent."
He lay musing. At last,
"I don't remember anything," he said, with a sigh. "I think the sun must have muddled my head. Tell me what happened."