“I do hate myself for doing that!” she exclaimed afresh, when she had finished the brandy he had poured out for her.  “Did I say anything foolish, silly—­did I?  Oh, I hope I didn’t.  What happened?”

Traill laughed good-naturedly at her apprehension.

“You didn’t say a word; you just moaned and tumbled off.  Pitched against me.  If I hadn’t been there, you’d have fallen clean on to the floor and perhaps hurt yourself.”

She sat up, then rose unsteadily to her feet.  “I am much better now!” she declared eagerly.

He watched her incomprehensively as she walked across the floor, her knees loose to bear her weight, her lips twitching, and her hands doing odd little things with no meaning in them.  It was forced upon him then, the wondering why she was trying so hard to hide her weakness.  He would have imagined that a woman would like to be made a fuss of, petted, looked after; to be allowed to lie prone upon a couch, emitting little moans of discomfort to attract sympathy.  And he, himself, would have been quite willing to give it.  But now, he came to the conclusion more than ever that she was not a woman who cared for the closest relationship.  Such a moment as this had been an excellent opportunity for a woman to have forced sentiment into the position, and dragged it on from there to intimacy, to have put out her hand to touch him, seemingly for comfort, but in reality with an hysterical desire for some demonstration of affection.  Sally had done none of these things.  With a giant effort she had struggled against her inertia.  There she was before him, walking up and down the room, talking anything that came into her head with forced courage, feigning a strength which any fool could see she did not possess.

At last his wonder dragged the question from him.  “Why are you going on like this?” he asked suddenly.

She stopped abruptly in her walking, turned and faced him with lips trembling and fingers picking at the braid upon her dress.

“Like what?”

“Like this.  Walking up and down the room.  Trying to talk all sorts of courageous nonsense, and showing how utterly unnerved you are in everything you say.”

“I’m not unnerved!” Her hand wandered blindly to the table near which she was standing.  She leant on it imperceptibly for support.  “I’m not unnerved,” she repeated.

“But you are, my dear child.  And why should you want to hide that from me?”

She stood there, swaying slightly, taking deep breaths to aid her in her effort.

“Well, I assure you I feel absolutely all right now.  I’m not a bit weak now!  I know I was ridiculously foolish—­”

“Yes, that’s the point I want to get at,” he interrupted; “that’s just the point I want to get hold of.”  He did not even appreciate his want of consideration then in pressing her to answer.  “Why do you call it foolish?  It was I who was foolish; I, entirely, who am to blame.  I ought to have known that that was not a fit sight for any woman not accustomed to look on at such things.  And because you can’t stand it, you call yourself foolish.”