quite a tragic matter. "You are right, and I was a perfect fool! Forgive me if you ever can."
"On one condition. The racket is yours. I have more than I can use."
She then took it from him, but no thanks would come. A "perfect fool" indeed, the depth of her folly—the knowledge that he had plumbed it—and the good-humored tact of his reproof, all struck home together and choked her with simple shame. She made one effort; another, and she would have broken down; but she was saved, and strangely, at that moment.
"Mr. Fullarton!" she heard her father cry. "Your hand! your hand!"
Fullarton looked; the blood was welling through his clenched fingers. He turned his back and examined the cut.
"Deeper than I thought!" he muttered to the manager. "Have you any gut in the medicine-chest? That's an artery pumping. Gut and tweezers and a basin of water in the dining-room!"
