rder was
restored, Richard withdrew in the direction of his studio. Margaret
was standing at the head of the stairs, half hidden by the scarlet
creeper which draped that end of the veranda.

"What are you doing there?" said Richard looking up with a bright
smile.

"Oh, Richard, I saw it all!"

"You didn't see anything worth having white cheeks about."

"But he struck you ... with the knife, did he not?" said
Margaret, clinging to his arm anxiously.

"He didn't have a knife, dear; only a small chisel, which couldn't
hurt any one. See for yourself; it is merely a cat-scratch."

Margaret satisfied herself that it was nothing more; but she
nevertheless insisted on leading Richard into the workshop, and
soothing the slight inflammation with her handkerchief dipped in
arnica and water. The elusive faint fragrance of Margaret's hair as
she busied herself about him would of itself have consoled Richard
for a deep wound. All this pretty solicitude and ministration was new
and sweet to him, and when the arnica turned out to be cologne, and
scorched his cheek, Margaret's remorse was so delicious that Richard
half wished the mixture had been aquafortis.

"You shouldn't have been looking into the yard," he said. "If I
had known that you were watching us it would have distracted me. When
I am thinking of you I cannot think of anything else, and I had need
of my wits for a moment."

"I happened to be on the veranda, and was too frightened to go
away. Why did you quarrel?"

In giving Margaret an account of the matter, Richard refrained
from any mention of his humiliating visit to Welch's Court that
morning. He could neither speak of it nor reflect upon it with
composure. The cloud which shadowed his features from time to time
was attributed by Margaret to the affair in the yard.

"But this is the end of it, is it not?" she asked, with troubled
eyes. "You will not have any further words with him?"

"You needn't worry. If Torrini had not been drinking he would
never have lifted his hand against me. When he comes out of his
present state, he will be heartily ashamed of himself. His tongue is
the only malicious part of him. If he hadn't a taste for drink and
oratory,--if he was not 'a born horator,' as Denyven calls him,--he
would do well enough."

"No, Richard, he's a dreadful man. I shall never forget his
face,--it was some wild animal's. And you, Richard," added Margaret
softly, "it grieved me to see you look like that.