No! it could not be real that this flower-like
figure was thrashed.
'Do you mean to say--?' he cried. The rapidity of her confidence alone
made him feel it all of a dreamlike unreality.
'Hush! Cecilia's singing!' she admonished him with an unexpected smile,
as her fingers fell from her face.
'Oh, you have been making fun of me.' He was vastly relieved. 'He beats
you--at chess--or at lawn-tennis?'
'Does one wear a high-necked dress to conceal the traces of chess, or
lawn-tennis?'
He had not noticed her dress before, save for its spiritual whiteness.
Susceptible though he was to beautiful shoulders, Winifred's enchanting
face had been sufficiently distracting. Now the thought of physical
bruises gave him a second spasm of righteous horror. That delicate
rose-leaf flesh abraded and lacerated!
'The ruffian! Does he use a stick or a fist?'
'Both! But as a rule he just takes me by the arms and shakes me like a
terrier a rat. I'm all black and blue now.'
'Poor butterfly!' he murmured poetically.
'Why did I tell you?' she murmured back with subtler poetry.
The poet thrilled in every vein.
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