"Right palm a mass of blisters, chafed by the rope. Couldn't think what made him sit through tea-time, doing nothing! Not like Nigel! Daisy wouldn't have told—little monkey—but he betrayed himself getting on board. Stumbled and grasped at something, and I saw his face. I should never have guessed otherwise. Anice wailed, of course; and Daisy was most womanful—actually had had the sense to take with her some rag and linseed oil. She did up the hand as nattily as could be. There's some stuff in that girl, I do believe. Hallo!" For Fulvia sat up, asking, "Is Nigel hurt?" "My dear, are you just awake?" said Mrs. Duncan, coming near. "Better for the rest, I hope. You need not worry yourself about Nigel. He scorched his hand; that is all. They have gone home in the boat, and we are to follow in a fly as soon as you can start. Would you like to get ready now?" "The sooner the better! How lazy I have been!" CHAPTER X TOM'S SPECIMENS "The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said To be the most remote from common use." "VERY pretty," said Ethel, gaping furtively behind one hand, as she gazed upon the open page of Tom Elvey's beloved companion, a neat herbarium of dried flowers and leaves. The cover of the volume was dark brown, the pages were light brown, and most of the gummed-down specimens were of a more or less dirty brown. Tom handled his treasure affectionately, and Ethel viewed each new page with outward politeness and inward wonder. That anybody should care for dead brown leaves, when living green ones were to be had, was a mystery to her. "Yes, very pretty," she repeated, smothering a second yawn, as Tom waited for appreciation. What would Nigel be doing just then? Ah, coming homeward, of course, for the afternoon was growing old. "At least, I mean that it must have been pretty once," continued truthful Ethel. "What is that on the next page? Edelweiss—is it really? I like the edelweiss. Yes, that does bear drying. How nice!" "It is a first-rate specimen," said Tom. "Did you gather it yourself?" "On the Matterhorn—no, I mean on the Jungfrau. I never put any specimen into this herbarium which I have not procured with my own hands." "I see—so it becomes a sort of record of your wanderings," said Ethel. "And you really are a mountain-climber?" "Not to any perilous extent. I went for this specimen." "And turned back as soon as you had got it!" Tom's "yes" was innocent. He did not understand Ethel's tone. "Of course I could have bought a specimen; but that would not have been the same thing." "Like bagging partridges," suggested Ethel, wanting a flash of some sort to relieve the dead level of talk. But though Tom could sometimes originate slow fun, he never could respond to anybody else's fun; and his look of blank inquiry made it needful for her to explain.