“Not this kind. I shall have to leave it to you.” In spite of the racking pain in his ankle, Barth was gaining energy to rebel at his short sight and the loss of his glasses. It would have been interesting to get a good look into the face of this intrepid young woman who had come to his rescue.
She received his last statement a little blankly.
“But I don’t speak any French of any kind,” she confessed.
“How unusual!” Barth murmured, with vague courtesy.
Nancy rose from her knees and dusted off her skirt.
“I don’t see why. I’ve never been abroad, and we don’t habitually speak French at home,” she answered a little resentfully.
Barth made no reply. All the energy he could spare from bearing the pain of his ankle was devoted to the study of how he could get himself out of his present position. His gravelly resting-place was uncomfortable, and it appeared to him that his foot was swelling to most unseemly dimensions. Nevertheless, he had no intention of throwing himself upon the mercy of a strange American girl of unknown years and ancestry. Raising himself on his elbow, he addressed the bystanders in the best Parisian French at his command. The bystanders stared back at him uncomprehendingly.
Standing beside him, Nancy saw his dilemma, saw, too, the bluish ring about his lips. Her amused resentment gave place to pity.
“I am afraid you are badly hurt,” she said gently.
“Yes.”