“It feels like a sunstroke,” he said vaguely to himself, as he realised that his senses were deserting him, not knowing that he spoke aloud.
He did not know either that some one had seen him stagger, and almost fall. A slightly uneasy feeling had made Maisie stop as she hurried off and glance back, herself unobserved.
“He looked so fearfully white,” she said; “do—do men always look like that when girls refuse them, I wonder?”
For Maisie’s experience of such things actually coming to the point, was, as should be the case with all true women, but small.
“I thought—I used to think I would enjoy seeing him humbled. But he did seem in earnest.”
And then came the glimpse of the young fellow’s physical discomfiture. Maisie was horribly frightened; throwing all considerations but those of humanity to the winds she rushed back again.
“Perhaps he has heart-disease, though he looks so strong,” she thought, “and if so—oh, perhaps I have killed him.”
She was beside him in an instant. A rustic bench, which Despard was too dizzy to see, stood near. The girl seized hold of his arm and half drew it round her shoulder. He let her do so unresistingly.
“Try to walk a step or two, Mr Norreys,” she said, “I am very strong. There, now,” as he obeyed her mechanically, “here is a seat,” and she somehow half pushed, half drew him on to it. “Please smell this,” and she took out a little silver vinaigrette, of strong and pungent contents, “I am never without this, for papa is so delicate, you know.”
Despard tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but the attempt was not very successful. Maisie held the vinaigrette close to his nose; he started back, the strong essence revived him almost at once. He took it into his own hand and smelt it again. Then his face grew crimson.