"I'd wipe that blood off," she said. "It's trickling on to your
collar. No, not with your hand. Where's your hanky?"

He tried to look contemptuous. He did, in fact, despise handkerchiefs.
The nice little girls in the Terrace had handkerchiefs, ostentatiously
clean. He had seen them, and they filled his soul with loathing. Now
he was ashamed. It seemed that even Frances expected him to have a
handkerchief.

"I haven't got one," he said.

"How do you blow your nose, then?"

"I don't," he explained truculently.

She executed one of her queer little dances, very solemnly and intently
and disconcertingly. It seemed to be her way of withdrawing into
herself at critical moments. When she stopped he was sure she had been
laughing. Laughter still twinkled at the corners of her mouth and in
her eyes.

"Well, I'm going to tidy you up, anyhow. Come sit down here."

He obeyed at once. It comforted him just to be near her. It was like
sitting by a fire on a cold day when you were half frozen. Something
in you melted and came to life and stretched itself, something that was
itself gentle and compassionate. It was difficult to remember that he
meant to kill Edith frightfully, though his mind was quite made up on
the subject. Meantime Frances had produced her own handkerchief--a
large clean one--and methodically rubbed away the blood and some of the