"Were you raiding the others?"
"No, madam, the others were raiding us."
He was working hard at the mirror, with his back to her, and somehow he felt that he had to keep a distance, though he could not analyse the feeling.
"Well,—what happened? Don't be so dashed modest."
"The Germans came into our trench."
"Yes."
"And they stuck some of our chaps. It's a nasty tool, the bayonet. And there was a bit of a panic. I was in a deuce of a funk."
"That's funny!"
"It wasn't at all funny. But something seemed to go off inside me—and I saw red."
She nodded her head. She was considering him, eyes half closed and fiercely languid.
"So you can see red. Well,—I shouldn't have thought it. It's rather—interesting. You must have been stronger then."
"I was. But it's not mere beef"
"No. Not bullock's strength. Wounded—I suppose?"
"Twice."
"Badly?"
"A bit of H. E. in the chest—the second time. I had to come home—after that."
He both felt and heard the rustling of the paper as she fanned herself, a disturbing sound, like the rustling of leaves or lace. He had finished cleaning the mirror, and he came down the steps rather hurriedly, folded them up, and grabbed the bucket.
"Anything else, madam?"
She observed him steadily above the rustling paper.
"No. You are an odd fish, Stephen."
He stared, and she laughed.
"Odd as odd. Go and see if you can find anything else to polish."
From that day Sorrell began to perceive Florence Palfrey more and more vividly as the tawny creature, the lioness
