“You’re cold, you must be getting back.” He rose.
She sprang to her feet before he could help her to rise.
“I’ll see you to Mrs. Pettiland’s.”
They scrambled to the high road above them, and began to walk, in constrained silence. Suddenly she cried:
“You’ve hurt yourself. You’re limping dreadfully. You told me you were unhurt——” She clutched his arm. “You can’t go on like this.”
“I’ll go on like this,” said he, thrilling under her touch, “to the day of my death. It has nothing to do with this evening’s entertainment. I was smashed up by a motor-lorry over a year ago, as Myra will tell you. That’s what knocked me out of Poland.”
She echoed his words—“Smashed up by a motor-lorry?—It might have killed you—and I should have never known.”
“Myra would have told you. As a matter of fact it very nearly did kill me.”
She turned her head away with a shudder.
“And just now——”