"Were you?"
"Yes. I kept on thinking you were angry with me and that I was a coward, and I could feel your fist in my face!..."
"I'm sorry I hit you, Henry!"
"It doesn't matter," he replied. "It served me right. And then when I did sleep, I kept on dreaming about it. Do you know, Sheila, I fell over the horse last night in the dark ... they left it lying in the road after they shot it ... and my hands slithered in the blood!..."
"Aw, the poor baste!" she said, and she began to cry. "The poor dumb baste!"
"And I kept on dreaming of that ... my hands dribbling in blood.... och!..."
He could not go on because the recollection of his dreams horrified him. They had moved to the side of the "loanie" and he mechanically stopped and plucked a long grass and began to wind it round his fingers.
"I think and think about things," he murmured at last.
She put out her hand and touched his arm. "Poor Henry," she said.
He threw the grass away and seized her hand in his.