The penknife slid along the bit of glass he was paring upon and cut his other hand. The blood spouted, and some of it fell upon the title page. Richard was angry. It was an irremediable catastrophe, for the paper was too weak to bear any washing.

He grabbed the child, intending again to carry her from the room and lock the door. Then first Vixen saw what she had done and was seized with horror—not because she had hurt the bookbinder, but because she could not stand the sight of blood. It was a hereditary weakness on sir Wilton’s side. One of the strongest men of his family used to faint at the least glimpse of blood. There was a tradition to account for it, not old or thin enough to cast no shadow, therefore seldom alluded to. It was not, therefore, an ordinary childish dismay, but a deep-seated congenital terror, that made Vixen give one wavering scream, and drop on the floor.

Richard thought she was pretending a faint, but when he picked her up he saw that she was unconscious. He laid her on a couch, rang the bell, and asked the man who answered it to take the child to her governess. The man saw blood on the child’s dress, and when he reached the schoolroom with her, informed the governess that she had had an accident in the library. Miss Malliver, with one of her accomplished shrieks, dispatched him to tell lady Ann. In a few moments Vixen came to and told a confused story of how the man had frightened her. Miss Malliver, who would hardly have been sorry had Vixen’s throat been cut, rose in wrath and would have swooped down the stairs upon Richard.

“Leave him to me, Malliver,” said lady Ann, and went down the stairs. She entered the library and saw Richard’s hand tied up in his handkerchief.

“What have you done to yourself, Mr. Tuke?” she said, making a motion to the wounded hand.

“Nothing of any consequence, my lady,” he answered, rising and standing before her. “I was using a very sharp knife and it slipped into my hand. I hope Miss Victoria is better.”

“There is nothing much the matter with her,” answered her ladyship. “The sight of blood always makes her faint.”

“Would you mind showing me the wound?” she continued. “I am something of a surgeon.”

To her disappointment he persisted that it was nothing. Lady Ann was foiled. 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, wondering at her friendliness but ready to meet any kindness. “If I had a fortune left me I would find it hard to drop it. There is nothing like work—and books—for enjoying life.”