"Don't you begin on me. I refuse to be doctored. The last attempt to cure my headache resulted in this——" and he held up his injured hand.
"Then I'd better not suggest an aspirin for fear you'd go and break your leg?"
"No, don't. It's a gorgeous day, though, simply a crime to stay indoors. Will you chance left-handed driving and come for a spin?"
"I will not," she refused decidedly. "The man who drives me will want two hands."
"Ah—formidable, as these French say. Then you don't trust me?"
"No, I don't. That's a very nasty cut you've got; it will be every bit of ten days before you can take a car out. You must give the thing a chance to heal properly."
She finished her lunch in a more agreeable frame of mind than she had begun it, then, excusing herself, went up to settle her patient for his afternoon nap. Something restless and fretful in Sir Charles's manner caught her attention for a moment, but when she had sat with him a little he quieted down so that she was sure when she left him he was about to doze off. She was glad not to encounter the doctor, although the flame of her anger had died down, leaving only the cold ashes of resentment.
She could not explain why it was that after a short brisk walk through the streets of La Californie she should suddenly feel impelled to return to the house. It seemed as though she were being literally drawn back to her patient. She had never had such a thing happen before. She raced home and ran upstairs, slipping quietly into the darkened bedroom. She hoped to find the old man asleep, but his feeble voice greeted her at once.
"Is that you, nurse?"
"Yes, Sir Charles. Haven't you had your nap?"