examined his broken shin. The blood was flowing, but not so much. It
was a nasty cut bruise, swelling and looking very painful. He sat
looking at it absorbedly, bent over it in the candle-light.
"It's not so very bad, when the pain goes off," she said, noticing
the black hairs of his shin. "We'd better tie it up. Have you got a
handkerchief?"
"It's in my jacket," he said.
She looked round for his jacket. He annoyed her a little, by being
completely oblivious of her. She got his handkerchief and wiped her
fingers on it. Then of her own kerchief she made a pad for the
wound.
"Shall I tie it up, then?" she said.
But he did not answer. He sat still nursing his leg, looking at his
hurt, while the blood slowly trickled down the wet hairs towards his
ankle. There was nothing to do but wait for him.
"Shall I tie it up, then?" she repeated at length, a little
impatient. So he put his leg a little forward.
She looked at the wound, and wiped it a little. Then she folded the
pad of her own handkerchief, and laid it over the hurt. And again he
did the same thing, he took her hand as if it were a plaster, and
applied it to his wound, pressing it cautiously but firmly down. She
was rather angry. He took no notice of her at all. And she, waiting,
seemed to go into a dream, a sleep, her arm trembled a little,
stretched out and fixed. She seemed to lose count, under the firm
compression he imposed on her. It was as if the pressure on her hand
pressed her into oblivion.
"Tie it up," he said briskly.
And she, obedient, began to tie the bandage with numb fingers. He
seemed to have taken the use out of her.
When she had finished, he scrambled to his feet, looked at the organ
which he was repairing, and looked at the collapsed pair of steps.
"A rotten pair of things to have, to put a man's life in danger," he
said, towards the steps. Then stubbornly, he rigged them up again,
and stared again at his interrupted job.
"You won't go on, will you?" she asked.
"It's got to be done, Sunday tomorrow," he said. "If you'd hold them
steps a minute! There isn't more than a minute's fixing to do. It's
all done, but fixing."
"Hadn't you better leave it," she said.
"Would you mind holding the steps, so that they don't let me down
again," he said. Then he took the candle, and hobbled stubbornly and
angrily up again, with spanner and hammer. For some minutes he
worked, tapping and readjusting, whilst she held the ricketty steps
and stared at him from below, the shapeless bulk of his trousers.
Strange the difference--she could not help thinking it--between the
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