“I thought perhaps you would help me to tie up my wrist.”

I came down instantly.  If he were pretending, I would punish him later.

“Come,” I said, and led the way to the library, where we found the fire had gone out.

How ashamed I felt of the servants!  This must never happen again.

“Not here; it is cold and horrid.”  And he followed me on into my mother-in-law’s boudoir.  There were no lights and no fire.

My wrath rose.

“It must be your mustard sitting-room, after all,” said Antony.  So up the stairs we went.  Here, at all events, the fire blazed, and the room glowed with brilliancy.

Roy was lying on the rug and seemed enchanted to see us.

“Is it really hurting you?” I said, hurriedly.

“No, not hurting—­only a stupid little scratch.”  And he undid his shirt-cuff and turned up his sleeve.

“Oh!” I exclaimed.  “Oh, I am so sorry!”

One of the shots had grazed the skin and made a nasty cut, which was plastered up with sticking-plaster and clumsily tied with a handkerchief.

“My servant is not a genius at this sort of thing.  Will you do it better, Comtesse?”

I bound the handkerchief as neatly as I could, and, for some unexplained reason, as once before at Harley, my heart beat in my throat.  I could feel his eyes watching me, although my head was bent.

I did not look up until the arm was finished.  His shirt was of the finest fine.  There was some subtle scent about his coat that pleased me.  A faint perfume, as of very good cigars—­nothing sweet and effeminate, like a woman.  It intensely appealed to me.  I felt—­I felt—­oh, I do not know at all what my feelings meant.  I tried to think of grandmamma, and how she would have told me to behave when I was nervous.  I had never been so nervous in my life before.

“You—­you will not shoot to-morrow?” I faltered.

“Of course I shall.  You must not trouble about this at all, Comtesse.  It is the merest scratch, and was a pure accident.  He is an excellent fellow, Mr.—­er—­Dodd is his name, is it not?  Only pity is he did not shoot his wife, poor fellow!”

Again, as on a former occasion, the admirable sang-froid of my kinsman carried things smoothly along.  I felt quite calmed when I looked up at him.

“We won’t try sitting on that sofa to-night,” I laughed.  “This is a fairly comfortable arm-chair.  You are an invalid.  You must sit in it.  See, I shall sit here,” and I drew a low seat of a dreadfully distorted Louis XV. and early Victorian mixed style that the upholsterer, when bringing the things, had described to me as a “sweet, pretty lady’s-chair.”

Antony sat down.  The light from the lily electric branches made the gray in his hair shine silver.  He looked tired and not so mocking as usual.

“I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.  He says the 4th of November will suit him.”