“Oh, yes it is—it is! It’s a dreadful wound. It—it bled!”
“It’s only a graze on the shoulder. You have done everything needful.”
“Oh, no—I don’t know how to attend to it properly. If only the doctor would come! Don’t they c-cauterize—wounds?” She stammered over the word, as she was not sure of it. “I—I—think I’ve read of that. And sew them up with silk?—to—to prevent people from bleeding to death?”
Her eyes were big and tearful with alarm.
“Please don’t be so troubled. It is only a trifle. You need not have sent for the doctor at all.” He turned his head to hide the flicker of amusement which he could not restrain.
“Oh, don’t talk!” she urged. “You haven’t the strength to waste. Ought I to telephone again? Oh, dear! Dr. Wells’s boy is so stupid. Perhaps he hasn’t told the doctor the right name—sent him off somewhere else. And—and—you’ll bleed to death before he—he—comes to sew you up with silk.” She wept.
“No—no, dear lady. Don’t be distressed. I’m all right.”
“Aw! ’E’ll do, I guess. Nuthin’ more’n a scratch; but wot a goin’-on habout it!” The constable was disgusted.
Rosamond turned on him, angrily.
“What do you know about it? It is all your fault! You might have killed him!”