“Or tell anyone about it?”
“No.”
“But why not?”
“I never yelp!” said Cornelia, proudly. She tilted her chin, and her eyes sent out a golden flash. “There was enough of that business going on without my joining in the chorus. If you’re hurt, it don’t mend it any to make a fuss.”
Guest looked at her curiously.
“You certainly did not yelp! I thought you had escaped entirely, and that your friend had come in for all the knocking about. I’m awfully sorry. Sprains are beastly things. Look here, if you don’t want to be crippled, it ought to be massaged at once! I’m knowing about sprains. Had an ankle cured in a couple of days by a Swedish fellow, which would have laid me up for weeks on the old methods. The great point is to keep the blood from congealing in the veins. Of course, it must be done in the right way, or it will do more harm than good. You set to work directly above the joint. Er—would you allow me?—might I show you for just a moment?”
The horse was ambling peacefully along a quiet lane, and as he spoke Captain Guest twisted the reins loosely round his own wrist and half held out his hands, then drew them back again in obvious embarrassment. The shyness was all on his own side, however, for Cornelia cried, “Why, suttenly!” in frank response, and pulled back the loose lawn sleeve to leave her wrist more fully exposed.
She watched with keen interest while he rubbed upward with gentle pressure, increased gradually as she showed no sign of pain or shrinking.
“That’s the way—upward, always upward. Follow the line of the blood vessels—you see!” He traced a fine blue line with the end of a big finger, while the groom rolled curious eyes from behind, rehearsing a dramatic recital in the servants’ hall. “After that has been done once or twice, tackle the joint itself, and you’ll be astonished at the effect. Is there anyone in the house who can do it for you? You could do a good deal for yourself, you know, if the worst comes to the worst. Like this—give me the left hand, and I’ll show you how to work the joint itself!”
Cornelia edged round in her seat to adopt a more convenient position, and laid her hand in his with the simplicity of a child. Such a slip of a thing it looked lying on his big brown paw, soft and white, with carefully manicured nails—almond-shaped, transparent, faintly pink. Guest loved a pretty hand, and held theories of its value as an exponent of character. The future Mrs Guest might or might not be handsome, as Fate decreed, but it was inconceivable that he could ever marry a woman with red fingers, or bitten nails. A pure artistic delight possessed him at the sight of Cornelia’s little hand, but the soft confident touch of it against his palm brought with it a thrill of something deeper. He gave his demonstration with a touch of awkwardness, but the girl herself was as placidly self-possessed as if he had been a maiden aunt buttoning up a glove. She put question after question, requested him to “show her again,” and gripped his own wrist to prove that she had mastered the desired movements. A more business-like manner it was impossible to imagine. Guest doubted if another girl of his acquaintance would have shown such an utter absence of self-consciousness. It was admirable, of course, quite admirable, but— He took up the reins with a little rankle of disappointment mingling with his approval.