“It is a horrid sight, my lady!” rejoined Richard, wondering at her ladyship's affability, and ready to meet any kindness. “When I was at school, I was terribly affected by it. One boy used to provoke me to fight him, and contrive that I should make his nose bleed—after which he could do what he liked with me. But I set myself to overcome the weakness, and succeeded.”
Lady Ann listened in silence, too intent on his hands to remark at the moment how the fact he mentioned bore on the question that absorbed her.
“Would you mind showing me the wound?” she said. “I am something of a surgeon.”
To her disappointment, he persisted that it was nothing. Because of the peculiarity she would gladly have missed in them, he did not like showing his hands. His mother had begged him not to meddle with the oddity until she gave her consent, promising a good reason for the request when the right time should arrive; but he was sensitive about it—probably from having been teased because of it. His comfort was, that a few slits of a sharp knife would make him like other people.
Lady Ann was foiled, therefore the more eager: why should the man be so unwilling to show his hands?
“Your work must be very interesting!” she said.
“I am fond of it, my lady,” he answered. “If I had a fortune left me, I should find it hard to drop it. There is nothing like work—and books—for enjoying life!”
“I daresay you are right.—But go on with your work. I have heard so much about it from Miss Wylder that I should like to see you at it.”
“I am sorry, my lady, but I shall be fit for next to nothing for a day or two because of this hand. I dare not attempt going on with what I am now doing.”
“Is it so very painful? You ought to have it seen to. I will send for Mr. Hurst.”