fighting again.

He had counted on the Banditti, but the Banditti were not on their
usual hunting-ground. An ominous silence answered the accustomed
war-cry, uttered in an unsteady falsetto, and the ruins had a more than
usually dejected look, as though they had suddenly lost all hope of
themselves. He called again, and this time, like an earth-sprite,
Frances Wilmot rose up from a sheltered corner and waved to him. She
had a book in her hand, and she rubbed her eyes and rumpled up her
short hair as though rousing herself from a dream.

"I did hear you," she said, "but I was working something out. I'll
tell you all about it in a minute. But what's happened? Why is your
face all bleeding?"

She seemed so concerned about him that he was glad of his wounds. And
yet she had the queer effect of making him want to cry again. That
wouldn't do. She wouldn't respect him if he cried. He thrust his
hands deep into his pockets and knitted his fair brows into a fearful
Stonehouse scowl.

"Oh, it's nothing. I've had a row--at home. That's all. My father's
new wife h-hit me--and I b-bit her. Jolly hard. And then I fell
downstairs."

"Why did she hit you?"

"Oh, I don't know. She's just a beast----"

"Of course you know. Don't be silly."