"What a pity! The bough is spoilt too," said Margaret. "Why don't you cut a crook like Valentine's?" She went towards Valentine's bush, somewhat surprised at the vehemence of Geoffrey's manner. Geoffrey took his knife and ran into the bushes to cut another crook. Hardly had he disappeared in the thickets when he called to her. "Margaret, Margaret! I have found your glove--you dropped it." She went towards the voice; the moment she came near he grasped both her hands tightly. There was no glove, it was a _ruse_ to speak to her. "You seem to prefer _his_ society to mine," he said, in a low, hard tone. "What _do_ you mean?" Her glance and surprised expression reproached him for his harshness. He hated himself for his next words, and yet he uttered them; jealousy is cruel, and drove him on even against his better mind. "I mean that you play double--first with me and then with _him_." Now this was not only positively untrue, but in the worst possible taste; had he been cool he would never have said it; as it was he instantly repented. She stood before him silent, all the blood gone from her cheek in the extremity of her indignation, unable to speak. Then she drew her hands away, and her breath came in short quick sobs. "No, no, I did not mean it." He tried to take her hand again, but she fled swiftly among the brake fern and the thickets seeking May. He stood bewildered at his own folly; then his anger was redoubled against Valentine instead of against himself. A minute or two afterwards he heard a slight cry, as if caused by pain, and immediately went towards it, but in a dazed kind of way. Valentine was swifter. As Margaret ran between the bramble bushes and the nut-tree stoles, winding round the tangled masses of fern, and increasing her pace as the full significance of Geoffrey's insinuation became apparent to her, she was heedless of her footsteps, and so caught her foot in a trailing bine of honeysuckle, and fell on one knee. In falling she instinctively grasped at the nearest bough, and thereby did the mischief; for a briar was twisted round it, and a great hooked thorn ran deep into her thumb. The sharp sudden pain caused her cry. Valentine was at her side in a moment. He saw the thorn, which had broken away from the briar and was fixed in the wound. "I am so sorry," he said. "Let me take it out." A tiny red globule of blood oozed from the white and polished skin, contrasting so sweetly in colour that he actually paused half a second to admire before he drew it. "Quick, please," she said. He drew it tenderly, and another larger crimson drop welled up, and stood on the delicate white thumb. "It is out." "You are sure the point is not left in?" He bent over to examine more carefully. The sunbeams lit up her beautiful hand; temptation overcame him and he kissed it, and the crimson drop stained his lip.