“Perhaps a thorn has gone into it,” he suggested. “If you will take off your boot I’ll look and see what is wrong.”
She bent down and began to unfasten it. Rhys looked anxiously about them and saw with satisfaction that the dusk had increased and would soon have fallen completely. He knelt down in front of her, and she straightened herself wearily, glad for her gloved fingers to escape the mud. When he pulled off the boot she gave a little cry of pain, and he looked up at her. She had put back her veil, and for the first time he saw her face. A look of admiration came into his own. She read the expression behind his eyes as she might have read the story in a picture, and it affected her like a draught of wine. Her fatigue was almost forgotten; she only felt that she was confronted by one of the most attractive and uncommon-looking of men, and that he admired her.
“Can you see anything in my foot?” she inquired, lowering her eyes.
He examined it carefully.
“There’s a very long thick thorn; it has run in nearly half-an-inch. I’m likely to hurt you pulling it out, but out it must come.”
“Very well,” she said.
He took out his knife.
“Oh, what are you going to do?” she cried in alarm.
“There’s a small pair of pincers in it. It will be best to use that.”
Isoline shut her eyes and drew her breath quickly; as the thorn came out she shuddered and put out her hand.