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On Friday night Mr. Barringcourt came. It was a little formal affair, one or two of the family circle and an intimate friend. The stranger sat beside his hostess for dinner, and they talked commonplaces. At last she turned to him with a pretty grace.

“You have not yet demanded my thanks,” said she.

“For what?” he asked.

“You know for what.”

“Your thanks would necessitate my apologies.”

“I am surprised you never offered them.”

“It was unnecessary.”

“There I must confess to some curiosity. Do you remember you said to me, ‘You are not hurt.’”

“Well?” said he, and smiled—a smile all the more charming as he bent his head to hers.

“Well!” she retorted. “I was hurt; your horse frightened me. To be frightened is to be hurt. Can you dispute it?”

“I never saw anyone stand pain better. Your face was a vision of—of—”

“Of what?” she asked.

“I do not understand your language very well, as yet. I shall improve in it; you must be patient. In a week or two I shall have found the word I need.”

“And till then?”