“Yes; he is sitting up by the window now, Miss Frink. I thought perhaps you would like to come in and visit him. He is rather low-spirited, you see.”
“Is he? Is he?” responded Miss Frink tensely. “What do you think he wants?”
“Oh, just to get well, I suppose. Convalescence is the hardest part after such a fever as he has had.”
“Well, I’ll come,” said Miss Frink, straightening herself valiantly, and she followed to the White Room, where in an armchair by the window sat a young man with long, pensive eyes. He was wearing, besides a gloomy expression, a small mustache and short beard carefully trimmed. A soft blanket was folded about his shoulders and another spread over the feet that rested on a cushioned stool.
Miss Frink’s startled eyes drew from the nurse the explanation that Dr. Morton had not wished the patient to be shaved as yet, and there was no change of expression in the pale, handsome face as Hugh looked up at her approach.
“Are you willing to shake hands with the old thing that got you into this mess?” inquired the visitor, and Hugh took her offered hand.
“I see they let you look out of both eyes now.” She seated herself near him.
“Yes, that scratch is all right,” he responded.
“Miss Damon thought I would be a cheerful visitor; but I suppose I’ll never look cheerful to you. Now I just want to know if there is anything more we can do for you than is being done.” Miss Frink’s emphatic tone had its usual businesslike ring. “Don’t you want to smoke?”