“She tore up a picture of mine,” he said, receiving the punishment without apparent emotion.  “She seemed to think because she’d drawn it herself she had a right to.”

There was a slight whimsical droop at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, which might have been thought characteristic of him.  He was an odd-looking boy, not ill-made, though very thin and not tall.  His pallor was clear and even, as though constitutional; the features were delicate, almost childlike, but they were very slightly distorted, through nervous habit, to an expression at once wistful and humorous; one eyebrow was a shade higher than the other, one side of the mouth slightly drawn down; the eyelids twitched a little, habitually; the fine, blue eyes themselves were almost comically reproachful—­the look of a puppy who thinks you would not have beaten him if you had known what was in his heart.  All of this was in the quality of his voice, too, as he said to his invisible captor, with an air of detachment from any personal feeling: 

“What peculiar shoes you wear!  I don’t think I ever felt any so pointed before.”

The rescuing knight took no thought of offering to help the persecuted damsel to arise; instead, he tightened his grip upon the prisoner’s neck until, perforce, water—­not tears—­started from the latter’s eyes.

“You miserable little muff,” said the conqueror, “what the devil do you mean, making this scene on our front lawn?”

“Why, it’s Eugene!” exclaimed the helpless one.  “They didn’t expect you till to-night.  When did you get in?”

“Just in time to give you a lesson, my buck,” replied Bantry, grimly.  “In good time for that, my playful step-brother.”

He began to twist the other’s wrist—­a treatment of bone and ligament in the application of which school-boys and even freshmen are often adept.  Eugene made the torture acute, and was apparently enjoying the work, when suddenly—­without any manner of warning—­he received an astounding blow upon the left ear, which half stunned him for the moment, and sent his hat flying and himself reeling, so great was the surprise and shock of it.  It was not a slap, not an open-handed push, nothing like it, but a fierce, well-delivered blow from a clinched fist with the shoulder behind it, and it was the girl who had given it.

“Don’t you dare to touch Joe!” she cried, passionately.  “Don’t you lay a finger on him.”

Furious and red, he staggered round to look at her.

“You wretched little wild-cat, what do you mean by that?” he broke out.

“Don’t you touch Joe!” she panted.  “Don’t you—­” Her breath caught and there was a break in her voice as she faced him.  She could not finish the repetition of that cry, “Don’t you touch Joe!”

But there was no break in the spirit, that passion of protection which had dealt the blow.  Both boys looked at her, something aghast.