“Not so bad,” she said. But Denis was terribly distressed, and his emotion was intensified when, looking up at her face, he saw that the trace of tears, involuntary tears of pain, lingered on her eyelashes. He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipe away the dirt from the wounded hand. The match went out; it was not worth while to light another. Anne allowed herself to be attended to, meekly and gratefully. “Thank you,” she said, when he had finished cleaning and bandaging her hand; and there was something in her tone that made him feel that she had lost her superiority over him, that she was younger than he, had become, suddenly, almost a child. He felt tremendously large and protective. The feeling was so strong that instinctively he put his arm about her. She drew closer, leaned against him, and so they sat in silence. Then, from below, soft but wonderfully clear through the still darkness, they heard the sound of Ivor’s singing. He was going on with his half-finished song: “Le lendemain Phillis plus tendre, Ne voulant deplaire au berger, Fut trop heureuse de lui rendre Trente moutons pour un baiser.” There was a rather prolonged pause. It was as though time were being allowed for the giving and receiving of a few of those thirty kisses. Then the voice sang on: “Le lendemain Phillis peu sage Aurait donne moutons et chien Pour un baiser que le volage À Lisette donnait pour rien.” The last note died away into an uninterrupted silence. “Are you better?” Denis whispered. “Are you comfortable like this?” She nodded a Yes to both questions. “Trente moutons pour un baiser.” The sheep, the woolly mutton--baa, baa, baa...? Or the shepherd? Yes, decidedly, he felt himself to be the shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courage swelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kiss her face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on the mouth. Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that this movement presented him. “No,” she protested; “no, Denis.” “Why not?” “It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly.” “Bosh!” said Denis. She tried to explain. “Can’t you see,” she said, “it isn’t...it isn’t our stunt at all.” It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denis in the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much as conceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He was so absurdly young, so...so...she couldn’t find the adjective, but she knew what she meant. “Why isn’t it our stunt?” asked Denis. “And, by the way, that’s a horrible and inappropriate expression.” “Because it isn’t.” “But if I say it is?” “It makes no difference. I say it isn’t.” “I shall make you say it is.” “All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must go in and get my ankle into hot water. It’s beginning to swell.”