“The bone isn’t broken,” she said professionally. “But you’d better get the stocking out of it.”
Without a thought, he pulled his trouser-leg higher and rolled down his stocking, extremely gingerly, and sick with pain.
“Can you show a light?” he said.
She found the candle. And she knew where matches always rested, on a little ledge of the organ. So she brought him a light, whilst he examined his broken shin. The blood was flowing, but not so much. It was a nasty cut bruise, swelling and looking very painful. He sat looking at it absorbedly, bent over it in the candle-light.
“It’s not so very bad, when the pain goes off,” she said, noticing the black hairs of his shin. “We’d better tie it up. Have you got a handkerchief?”
“It’s in my jacket,” he said.
She looked round for his jacket. He annoyed her a little, by being completely oblivious of her. She got his handkerchief and wiped her fingers on it. Then of her own kerchief she made a pad for the wound.
“Shall I tie it up, then?” she said.
But he did not answer. He sat still nursing his leg, looking at his hurt, while the blood slowly trickled down the wet hairs towards his ankle. There was nothing to do but wait for him.
“Shall I tie it up, then?” she repeated at length, a little impatient. So he put his leg a little forward.