"I didn't have to step in. It's my fault I got punched in the face, not yours." Logic which, to Ned, is perfectly reasonable. He thinks of it as taking responsibility for his own actions, like men are supposed to do. (There is, of course, very little that he can't reason out to be his fault, in the end).

Ginsberg is right about the ice, though. Ned gets to his feet, legs still shaking, but now steady enough to keep him upright. He saw a corner shop on the way here that will probably do; he is worried about Ginsberg's eye (and his own nose is none too comfortable). He's also worried about that shamefaced expression on Ginsberg's face, especially since he brought up his own rather bad track record with dates. It helps to shake Ned out of the bad moment, remind him why they'd been in the museum in the first place, why he'd woken up this morning so happy he could hardly get out of bed.

"Okay, maybe not the best date ever so far, but it's only," he checks his watch, "a quarter past eleven. I think we have time to save it, don't you?" He smiles, and it's a little dimmer than usual, but genuine.

But he can't shake off the whole thing that quickly, and the smile slips from him a few seconds later. There's something digging at his thoughts, like a thorn, and he asks abruptly, "Do you think I hurt him?"