It was a raw, jagged, angry-looking wound, but nothing to occasion concern.
She dealt with it as she had done the other, then she drew the edges of the cut together, binding them in place with strips of sticking plaster. When it was all over, I slipped into my jacket, swung my knapsack across my shoulders, took my golf-bag under my left arm,—and I was ready.
Maisie wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
"Never mind, little woman," I sympathised.
"Must you really go away, sir?" she sobbed.
"Yes!—I must. Good-bye, little girl."
I kissed her on the trembling curve of her red, pouting lips, then I went down the stairs, leaving her weeping quietly on the landing.
As I turned at the front door for one last look at the inside of the old home, which I might never see again, I saw the servants carrying Harry from the armoury. I could hear his voice swearing and complaining in almost healthy vigour, so I was pleasantly confirmed in what I already had surmised,—his hurt was as temporary as the flat of a good, trusty, highland broad-sword could make it.