"Do not think of it, Miss Huntington," Wallace said, growing pale as his own thoughts went back to those moments of horror.
"Why not?" she cried, impulsively. "Why should I not think of it and speak of it, too, when I see this poor arm"—and she touched it almost reverently with her dainty fingers—"when I realize how thoughtless of self you were in trying to save me? Ah! and that poor hand, too," she added, as she caught sight of his right hand, which had been badly cut by broken glass, and on which she saw a broad strip of court-plaster, "how much you have suffered!"
And carried away by her feelings, forgetful of all but the gratitude that filled her warm, young heart, she suddenly bent forward and impulsively touched her lips to the wounded hand that hung by his side.
Wallace caught his breath. That touch was like electricity to him, and the rich color surged up to his brow.
"Miss Huntington, don't!" he cried; "you overestimate what I did."
"No, indeed I do not," Violet returned, earnestly, and then, overcome by the sudden realization of what she had done—that he was almost a stranger and she had been guilty of a rash and perhaps unmaidenly act—a burning blush leaped to the roots of her hair, and for the moment she was speechless from shame and embarrassment.
"Pardon me," she said, after an awkward silence. "I forgot myself—I forgot everything but that I owe you my life."
Then tossing back her head and shooting a half appealing, half defiant look at him, to cover her confusion, she said, with a bewitching little pout:
"But now that I have come to call upon you, Mr. Richardson, aren't you going to entertain me?"
The change from embarrassment to this pretty piquancy was so instantaneous and so charming that Wallace's face grew luminous with admiration and delight. A smile wreathed his lips, and there came a look into his eyes that made her flush consciously again.