For an instant she stuck her head into the bedroom door, to say reassuringly to her patient:
"It's only a cut, Sir Charles, nothing serious."
Then she dashed off in search of her little first-aid box, returning a moment later with it and a basin of water. Miss Clifford cleared the table for her paraphernalia.
"What a comfort you are. Miss Rowe! Do you think it will want stitching up?"
"Oh, no! But he must keep it bandaged. It's in such an awkward place, the right hand, too."
"Good-bye to tennis, also golf, for the rest of my stay," was Roger's rueful comment. "What rotten luck!"
Esther worked skilfully and quickly: soon the injured hand was swathed in a neat and snowy bandage that smelled of iodine. She was aware that Roger's eyes not only followed the movements of her fingers, but dwelt as well on her cheek, her mouth, the downward sweep of her lashes. It was a pleasant moment, fraught with potentialities.
"Can I be of any assistance?"
The question came in a somewhat laboured manner from the door behind. Over her shoulder Esther saw the doctor, his bald head lowered, his small eyes regarding them in a sort of dull, tentative way.
"No, thanks, doctor, I've just finished…. You didn't want me for anything, did you?"