“But you are not hurt? They did pass!” The horror of that which might have been, of that which had so nearly been, overcame him anew, gave a fresh poignancy to his tone. “You are sure—sure that you are not hurt?”
“No, I am not hurt,” she whispered. “But I am very—very frightened. Don’t speak to me. I shall be right—in a minute.”
“Can I do anything? Get you some water?”
She shook her head and he stood, looking solicitously at her, still fearing that she might swoon, and wondering afresh what he ought to do if she did. But after a minute or so she sighed, and a little color came back to her face. “It was near, oh, so near!” she whispered, and she covered her face with her hands. Presently, and more certainly, “Why did you have it—at full cock?” she asked.
“God knows!” he owned. “It was unpardonable. But that is what I am! I am a fool, and forget things. I was thinking of something else, I did not hear you come up, and when I found you there I was startled.”
“I saw.” She smiled faintly. “But it was—careless.”
“Horribly! Horribly careless! It was wicked!” He could not humble himself enough.
She was herself now, and she looked at him, took him in, and was sorry for him. She removed her hands from the rail, and though her fingers trembled she straightened her bonnet. “You are Mr. Ovington?”
“Yes. And you are Miss Griffin, are you not?”
“Yes,” smiling tremulously.