Percival and insisted upon re-bandaging his hands.

"You must not go into all that tangle of brushwood with your hands
unprotected," she declared, obstinately shaking her head in response to
his objections. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Percival. It won't take me five
minutes to wrap them up. Sit down,--I insist. You are still one of my
patients. Hold out your hand!"

"They are ever so much better," he protested, but he obeyed her.

"Of course they are," she agreed, in a matter-of-fact tone. "You did
not give me a chance last night to tell you how splendid you were in
tackling that crazy mob. I witnessed it all, you know. Madame Obosky and
I."

"Then, you didn't beat it when I told you to, eh?"

"Certainly not. What are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do? I can only say this: I'm glad Captain Trigger's opinion
of me is based on my ability to reason with an ignorant mob and not on
my power to intimidate a couple of very intelligent young women."

"I wouldn't have missed it for worlds," she said coolly. She looked up
into his eyes, a slight frown puckering her brow. "Do you know, Madame
Obosky had the impertinence to say that you would have turned tail and
fled if those people had shown fight."

He grinned. "She's an amazing person, isn't she? Wonderful faculty for
sizing the most of us up."

"You would have run?"

"Like a rabbit," he answered, unabashed. "That's a little too tight, I
think, Miss Clinton. Would you mind loosening it up a bit?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is that better? Now the other one, please."

"Yes, I'm an awful coward," he said, after a long silence.

She looked up quickly. Something in his eyes brought a faint flush to
her cheek. For a second or two she met his gaze steadily and then her
eyes fell, but not before he had caught the shy, wondering expression
that suddenly filled them. He experienced an almost uncontrollable
desire to lay his clumsy hand upon the soft, smooth brown hair. Through
his mind flashed a queer rush of comparison. He recalled the
dark, knowing eyes of the Russian dancer, mysterious and
seductive,--man-reading eyes from which nothing was concealed,--and
contrasted them with the clear, honest, blue-grey orbs that still could
fall in sweet confusion. His heart began to pound furiously, he felt a
queer tightening of the throat. He was afraid to trust his voice. How
white and soft and gentle were her hands,--and how beautiful they were.

Suddenly she stroked the bandaged han