said Dorothea in a strangled voice. She stood there with her skirts in the water, still holding him off with both hands.

"Hurt yourself?"

She shook her head.

"Sure? Will you take my arm for a bit?" said Gardiner, puzzled by her unaccountable emotion.

She shook her head again, and stumbled after him to the shore. There she sat down on the stone which had been their table, to put on her shoes and stockings while he collected his possessions. He gave her plenty of time, as he thought, yet when he turned she was still sitting there, with one foot bare on the grass. Across the instep, blanched alabaster white by the water, ran a crimson gash.

"Hullo! you have damaged yourself," said Gardiner. "You ought to have something between that and the stocking if you'll allow me to say so. Got a handkerchief?"

"I've lost it," she said without looking up.

"Have mine, then." He held it out; she made no movement. "May I do it for you?"

After a brief incomprehensible hesitation, she murmured: "Please." More and more puzzled, Gardiner knelt down and took her foot in his hand. It was a bad cut, but not very bad; some women would have made nothing of it; he was glad she belonged to the more feminine type. He washed away the gravel and fixed a neat bandage, Dorothea sitting passive. But he could feel that she was conscious of him; and he became acutely conscious of her. When it was done, she murmured something which might have been supposed to be thanks, slipped half her foot into her shoe and stood up.

"You'll never get home at that rate. Let me help you," said Gardiner, watching her attempt to shuffle along.

"I--I think I can manage. Is it far?"

"Twenty minutes' walk, and shocking bad going."

"I shall be taking you out of your way."

"Not a bit of it. It's time I got back too."

"But your friend--I saw him fishing up the stream."

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