No spoken confidences passed between them. Their intimacy was such as to
make words seem superfluous. Both seemed to feel that the present was
all-sufficing.
Only once did Priscilla challenge Carfax's memory. The impulse was
irresistible at the moment, though she regretted it later. He was
holding out to her the biggest strawberry he could find. It lay on a
leaf on the palm of his hand, and as she took it she suddenly saw a
long, terrible scar extending upwards from his wrist till his sleeve hid
it from view.
"Why," she exclaimed, with a start; then, seeing his questioning look,
"surely that's a burn?"
"It is," said Carfax.
He turned his hand over to hide it. His manner seemed to indicate that
he did not wish to pursue the subject. But Priscilla, suddenly reckless,
ignored the hint.
"But how did you do it?" she asked.
Carfax hesitated for a second, then:
"It was years ago," he said, rather unwillingly. "A lady's dress caught
fire. It fell to me to put it out."
"How brave!" murmured Priscilla. Her eyes were shining. Had he looked up
then he must have read her secret.
But he did not look up. For the first time he seemed to be labouring
under some spell of embarrassment.
"It wasn't brave at all," he said, after a moment. "I could have done no
less."
There was almost a vexed note in his voice. Yet she persisted.
"What was she like? Wasn't she very grateful?"
"I don't know at all.
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