"Does a man wear this sort of ornament for fun?" and I drew the bandaged hand from the sling.
"There's no accounting for what a man will do—in Madrid," she retorted, with a sniff of battle and a toss of the head.
"Angela!" cried Mercy. "What is the matter, Nand?"
"He wants us to perform what he calls a 'surgical operation,' Mercy."
"The matter is not very serious, I believe," I answered, in deference to the pain on my sister's face, but seeing now how to punish Mrs. Curwen, I added: "They tell me, indeed, that if the bandages are removed very carefully and a particular kind of massage employed, I shall recover the use of the fingers quickly."
"I have had a lot of nursing experience, I can do it," said the widow; and she began to handle the bandages very gently. "But what kind of massage do you mean?"
"That will depend upon the condition in which we find them. I believe they will have to be rubbed by being passed through cloth." This somewhat recondite description of putting them through my coat sleeve puzzled her completely.
"I never heard of anything like that," she said, wrinkling her forehead in perplexity; now quite serious. "But whoever put these on? I never saw anything so clumsy in my life. I must cut this one," and as she turned away to find scissors, I took occasion to give Mercy a glance, which not only relieved her anxiety, but changed her into an accomplice.
"Poor old Nand," she cried, in quite a tearful voice, but laughing to me with her eyes. "Be careful, Angela. Shall I do it, dear?"
"Do you think I can't take a bandage off?" was the reply, with some sharpness, as she came back with the scissors.