"Philip!" she called, springing to her feet and scarcely knowing that
she had spoken.
He heard her, and came toward her in a halting, dazed way, stopping
twice to cleanse his face of the bright blood that streaked it.
"It's nothing," he said--"the infernal thing hit me. . . . Oh, don't use
_that_!" as she drenched her kerchief in cold sea-water and held it
toward him with both hands.
"Take it!--I--I beg of you," she stammered. "Is it s-serious?"
"Why, no," he said, his senses clearing; "it was only a rap on the
head--and this blood is merely a nuisance. . . . Thank you, I will use
your kerchief if you insist. . . . It'll stop in a moment, anyway."
"Please sit here," she said--"here where I've been sitting."
He did so, muttering: "What a nuisance. It will stop in a second. . . .
You needn't remain here with me, you know. Go in; it is simply
glorious."
"I've been in; I was drying my hair."
He glanced up, smiling; then, as the wet kerchief against his forehead
reddened, he started to rise, but she took it from his fingers, hastened
to the water's edge, rinsed it, and brought it back cold and wet.
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