Rapidly reviewing the incidents of the afternoon, he was as much surprised as shocked at the recollection of his own discourtesy. This stranger had overheard his frank declaration of dislike, had probably also seen the glance of reproach which he had cast upon Greville in the porch before starting out on this drive. Twice in a few hours had he overstepped the bounds of politeness, he, who flattered himself on presenting an unimpeachable exterior, whatever might be the inward emotions! The explanation of the lapse was a suddenly conceived prejudice at the moment of first meeting. The girl's jaunty self- possession had struck a false note, and he had labelled her as callous and selfish. Now, looking at her afresh, he realised that this was not the face of a cold-hearted woman. This girl could _fed_! She was feeling now--feeling something painful, depressing. His eyes fell once more on her ungloved hands; he noticed that she held the right wrist tightly grasped, and even as he did so memory flashed back a picture of her as she had stood above him on the bank, her hands held in the same strained position. Afterwards he marvelled at the accuracy of that brain picture, but for the moment concern overwhelmed every other feeling. The inquiry came in quick, almost boyish tones, strangely different from his previous utterances. "I say! have you hurt your wrist? You are holding it as if it were painful." Cornelia turned to see a face as altered as the voice, elevated her brows in involuntary surprise, and drawled an indifferent assent. "I guess I ricked it, hanging on to those reins. It was pulled half out of the sockets." "Didn't you have anything done for it at the house?" "No." "Or tell anyone about it?" "No." "But why not?" "I never yelp!" said Cornelia, proudly. She tilted her chin, and her eyes sent out a golden flash. "There was enough of that business going on without my joining in the chorus. If you're hurt, it don't mend it any to make a fuss." Guest looked at her curiously. "You certainly did not yelp! I thought you had escaped entirely, and that your friend had come in for all the knocking about. I'm awfully sorry. Sprains are beastly things. Look here, if you don't want to be crippled, it ought to be massaged at once! I'm knowing about sprains. Had an ankle cured in a couple of days by a Swedish fellow, which would have laid me up for weeks on the old methods. The great point is to keep the blood from congealing in the veins. Of course, it must be done in the right way, or it will do more harm than good. You set to work directly _above_ the joint. Er--would you allow me?--might I show you for just a moment?"