She had settled herself into a bantering attitude toward him and now gaily maintained the lighter vein:
"Merely because you and Lord Dankmere have become respectable tradesmen and worthy citizens you've hastened up here to admonish the frivolous, I suppose."
"I'm so respectable and worthy," he admitted, "that I couldn't resist rushing up here to exhibit myself. Look at that bruise!"—he held out to her his left hand badly discoloured between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh," she exclaimed, half serious, "what is it?"
"A bang with an honest hammer. Dankmere and I were driving picture-nails. Oh, Strelsa! you should have listened to my inadvertent blank verse, celebrating the occasion!"
The quick, warm colour stained her cheeks as she heard him use her given name for the first time. She raised her eyes to his in questioning silence, but he was still laughing over his reminiscence and seemed so frankly unconscious of the liberty he had taken that, again, a slight sense of confusion came over her, and she leaned back, uncertain, inwardly wondering what his attitude toward her might really mean.
"Do you admit my worthiness as a son of toil?" he insisted.
"How can I deny it?—with that horrid corroboration on your hand. I'll lend you some witch-hazel——"
"Witch-hazel from Witch-Hollow ought to accomplish all kinds of magic," he said. "I'll be delighted to have you bind it up."
"I didn't offer to; I offered you merely the ingredients."