“When it was all over and there was nothing to cry about, I cried,” interrupted Gerald.  “Women are always fools.  I’ll except Mrs. Whittridge, however.  She has been the greatest comfort to Phebe.”

“It is Soeur Angelique’s characteristic privilege always to be a comfort, I believe,” answered Denham, recovering his light-heartedness in a flash.  “Might I inquire if you have any especial object with this lamp?  Shall I do any thing particularly with it?”

“Let it down, please—­anywhere.  I remembered the room was dark, and ran down to put it to rights before Mrs. Lane should comeback.  Her orderly soul would have a spasm if she came upon it suddenly like this.”

“It was well I had no light,” said Denham, looking around him.  “It would have frightened even me.  Shan’t I call some one?”

“It’s the ridiculous fashion of the house to suppose it never needs servants at this hour.  There’s not one within reach.”

“You must let me help you then.  Is this the table-cover?”

“Thanks.  I am afraid the fire has done for it, but we can’t help that.  Pull it a little farther to your side, please.  Farther still.  That’s too far.  So.  That’s right.  Now the lamp here.  Now the books.  Cover up the holes with them.”

“Ah, Miss Lydia’s pet cup! and her little favorite statuette!”

“Hideous things!  I’m glad they’re smashed.”

“Will you equally enjoy imparting to her the fact of their loss?”

“Somebody else may do that.  I had my share telling her about Phebe.”

“I suppose she was terribly shocked, poor old soul.  I don’t wonder.”

“She had an instant attack of hysterics, and I did wonder,” rejoined Gerald, tartly.  “But as I told you, women are always fools, and nervous women the worst ones, I haven’t any patience with them.  I was vexed enough with her for keeping me from Phebe.  I don’t believe she was ever hurried so out of an attack before.”

“I’m afraid there’s need of a broom or something here, Miss Vernor.  This vase is in a thousand pieces.”

Gerald seized the hearth-brush and was on her knees by him in a moment. 
“The lamp, please, Mr. Halloway.  Set it on the floor an instant.”

Denham moved it as desired, and stood looking down at her as she began deftly brushing up the scattered bits.

“Miss Vernor!” he suddenly exclaimed in a shocked voice.  The bright light, falling broadly across her hands, showed two great angry-red blotches just above one of the delicate wrists.  He stooped and laid masterful hold of the long handle of the brush.

“Well?” she said, stopping perforce and looking up in surprise.  “What is it?”

“Your arm—­you are burned, badly burned.”

Gerald made a little sound of contempt for all reply.

“It should be dressed at once.  How it must pain you!”

Gerald looked at her arm reflectively.  “I haven’t had time to feel,” she said, vainly trying to pull her sleeve over it.  “It will make an ugly scar, won’t it?  I shall have to abandon elbow sleeves.  Now please let go the brush.”