"Just a foolish break of mine, Miss Boland," apologized Henry, feeling somehow that many things were foolish—including himself—when he sat so close to this exciting presence; then he narrated, with certain studied omissions, something of what had happened.
The girl had listened gravely, much impressed. "That was big of you, Mr. Harrington," she said, "but it was rash." The blue eyes shifted to the roadway, but in the expression of her pliant lips remained the ghost of her disapproval. The mold of that disapproval made the expression altogether lovely to contemplate.
As they sped a pleasant fragrance of the forest came in from without; but there was another fragrance; subtle, elusive, delightful. It came from within—from her. It was infinitely delicate and delicately stirring. Yes—she was his kind.
"I—I am sorry that I missed the golf game," it occurred to him to say, "but—but I was overcome with drowsiness while that—that Siwash was working on me." He felt mean that having been vague at first, vagueness was required once more.
"After that terrible blow?" The blue eyes were round and lifted sympathetically to the mountainous bandages. "You poor man! I should think you would be. Don't mention it—now that I know why. But you had other appointments for the day, I believe."
"No; no other appointments," ruminated Henry; "at least nothing important."
The girl threw him a scrutinizing glance, saw that he was serious and then laughed merrily. "You didn't count Scanlon important then? How that will take him down!"
