One cheek was a dull red.
Gently, without asking his consent, she began to coat his burned skin as best she might with her makeshift of alleviation.

His hand trembled under hers.
"Now," she said, "hold still.

I must fix your hand some more." She still bent over, gently, delicately touching his flesh with hers.
And then all in one mad, unpremeditated instant it was done! His hand caught hers, regardless of the pain to either.

His arm went about her, his lips would have sought hers.
It was done! Now he might repent.
A mad way of wooing, inopportune, fatal as any method he possibly could have found, moreover a cruel, unseemly thing to do, here and with her situated thus.

But it was done.
Till now he had never given her grounds for more than guessing.