“I hope your arm is better,” I said, speaking softly, so that no sound of my voice might reach those inside.
“I beg your pardon,” the girl returned icily.
“I was expressing the hope that your arm was better,” I explained.
“But there is nothing the matter with my arm—thank you.”
The girl’s voice was perfectly cool and without the slightest sign of flurry or perturbation.
“I may congratulate you on a wonderfully quick recovery, then,” I responded.
“I do not understand you—what was supposed to be the matter with my arm?”
“I was told—it was rumoured—that you had cut it—climbing a wall—a wall with glass on top.”
“I do not climb walls.”
“I don’t suppose you make a hobby of it, but every one does queer things now and again.”