"Linen, please, Miss Hartill, or old rags! It's rather a bad cut." Then, to the maid, "How on earth did you do it? A tin-opener? No, no, Miss Hartill! a duster's no good. An old handkerchief or something." She was achieving complicated effects with a fork and a knotted scarf as she spoke, and Clare, obediently tearing linen into strips, considered her critically. The girl was capable then, as well as amusing.... That tourniquet might not be professional, but it was at least effective.... The bleeding was stopping.... Very good of her to toil over Bagot's unappetising hand.... Clare marvelled at her unconcern, for she was dainty enough in her own person to please even Clare's fastidious eye. Clare supposed that it was a good thing that some people had the nursing instinct.... She thanked her stars that she herself had not.... Alwynne, unconscious of scrutiny, put in her final safety-pin, settled the sling and stepped back at last, surveying her handiwork with some pride. "It'll want a stitch, though. She'd better go to the doctor, I think," she said decisively. "Shall I come with you?" This to the maid, complacently the centre of attention. But the maid preferred to fetch her mother. "Her mother lived quite close, miss. If Miss 'Artill could get on----" "She can't do any cooking with that hand," said Alwynne to Clare, more in decision than appeal, and Clare acquiescing, she fetched hat and coat, manipulated hatpins, and bundled the girl forth. She returned to the kitchen to find Miss Hartill, skirts clutched high, eyeing the crowded table with distaste, and prodding with a toasting-fork at the half-prepared meal. "Isn't it disgusting? How these people bleed! I can't stand a mess! Really, I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Durand for seeing to Bagot. I'm no good at that sort of thing. I hate touching people. You don't think it was a bad cut, though?" "It must have hurt! She won't be able to use her hand for a day or two." Clare rubbed her nose peevishly. She had a comical air of resenting the necessity for concerning herself with her own domestic arrangements. "Well, what am I to do? And I loathe charwomen. She might at least have got lunch first!" "The meat's cooked, anyhow," said Alwynne hopefully, drawing forth a congealing dishful. Clare shivered. "Take it away! It's all over Bagot." "I don't think it is." Alwynne examined it cautiously. Clare gave her a short laugh. "Anyhow, it doesn't appeal any more. Never mind, Miss Durand, I shall manage--I mustn't keep you." Alwynne disregarded the hint. She seemed preoccupied. "There aren't any eggs, I suppose," she ventured diffidently. Clare flung out vague hands. "Heaven knows! It's Bagot's business. Why?"