She was too staggered to speak; the fall had unnerved her. She put her
hand vaguely behind her, feeling for the rail, looking up at him with
piteous, quivering lips.
"You should look where you are going," he said, with scant sympathy.
"Perhaps you will another time."
She found the rail, leaned upon it, then turned her back upon him
suddenly and burst into tears which she was too shaken to restrain. She
thought he would go away, hoped that he would; but he remained, standing
in stolid silence till she managed in a measure to regain her
self-control.
"Where did you hurt yourself?" he asked then.
She struggled with herself, and answered him. "I--I am not hurt."
"Then what are you crying for?"
The words sounded more like a rude retort than a question.
She found them unanswerable, and suddenly, while she still stood
battling with her tears, something in the utterance touched her sense of
humour. She gulped down a sob, and gave a little strangled laugh.
"I don't quite know," she said, drying her eyes. "Thank you for picking
me up."
"I should have tumbled over you if I hadn't," he responded.
Again her sense of humour quivered, finally dispelling all desire to
cry.
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