She laughed nervously, and then gently rubbed
her fingers over the thick hair.
"There is a dreadful lump!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how sorry I am. Do--
do you feel faint or--or--I mean, is it very painful?"
"Not now," he replied, replacing his cap and favouring her with his
most engaging smile.
She smiled in response, betraying not the slightest sign of
embarrassment. As a matter of fact, she was, if anything, somewhat
too self-possessed.
"I remember falling down stairs once," she said, "and getting a
stupendous bump on my forehead. But that was a great many years ago
and I cried. How was I to know that it hurt you, Mr. Schmidt, when
you neglected to cry?"
"Heroes never cry," said he. "It isn't considered first-class
fiction, you know."
"Am I to regard you as a hero?"
"If you will be so kind, please."
She laughed outright at this. "I think I rather like you, Mr.
Schmidt," she said, with unexpected candour.
"Oh, I fancy I'm not at all bad," said he, after a momentary stare of
astonishment. "I am especially good in rough weather," he went on,
trying to forget that he was a prince of the royal blood, a rather
difficult matter when one stops to consider he was not in the habit
of hearing people say that they rather liked him.
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