“You mean,” he cried, “you mean that?—”
Then his voice broke off sharply, and his forehead wrinkled in dismay. “What’s that? That mark on your arm. Blood?”
He pointed. I looked, and sure enough a dull red patch was spreading over the muslin sleeve of my dress. The blow had evidently cut the skin, and this was the result. I felt dreadfully sorry for myself, and rather faint, and altogether considerably worse than I had done before, as a result of beholding these visible signs of injury. So, I was content to see, did Mr Maplestone himself. He really looked horribly worried and distressed, and kept glancing at me with anxious eyes, as if every moment he expected me to collapse.
But he never offered his arm! He came with me as far as the gate, and then held out his hand in farewell. It would have been churlish to refuse, so I put my own hand in his just for a moment.
“Don’t shake it, please,” I said. “It hurts.” And then, because it did seem such an odd thing to say, I smiled again, a feeble watery smile.
He dropped my hand like a hot coal, and fled.
I limped into the house and told Charmion all about it, and cried quarts. I was mottled all over, black and blue.