"You'll ruin it!" cried one or two, meaning the portmanteau.
"He's cut himself," said another.
But Fullarton doubled his fist before the blood had time to flow. "It's nothing!" he muttered, and, with his left hand, cut the straps, sawed round the lock, and had the portmanteau open in an instant. In another, the shirts were displayed and disarranged, and the lawn-tennis racket duly produced.
"As straight as my face, I think!" said Fullarton, as he held it out to Irralie. She hardly looked at it. But, from her place among the others, she did look at Fullarton—humbly, steadfastly—with an expression which he alone could read. To the rest there had merely been a friendly argument, and Irralie was merely in the wrong. Yet to the more observant there was an unprecedented absence of humor, and of spirit in Irralie's acknowledgment of the fact.
"You are right," she said, as if it were
