“Her cuts are too many,” Joy explained, “but the important thing is there are no bones broken, no serious injuries.”
The two reached the hospital at nine o’clock and waited an hour before Madame Durant was allowed to go in and sit by Félicie’s bed for five minutes. The old lady came down rather shaken. “She’s all bandaged up,” she said, “and of course she can’t talk loud enough for me to hear.” “But she’s doing splendidly,” amended the nurse who had accompanied her.
“May—may I go on now?” asked Joy.
The nurse hesitated. “I really wouldn’t—so soon after this call——”
“Then I’ll wait, if you’ll let me know when I can come.” So Joy waited alone in the ante room, and answered Hal Jennings’ anxious inquiries over the phone. . . .
Finally the nurse who smiled like an automaton came to the door and beckoned. Joy looked at her watch. It was half past twelve; she had been in the anteroom over three hours.
A long white bed with a long, white figure, the white coverlet lapping itself around the gracious lines. Félicie’s hair in a loose, thick braid, her tendrils sketching dark fancies over the pillow. A mass of bandages, from which Félicie’s perfect lips escaped, unharmed. Félicie’s brown velvet eyes peering oddly from recesses in the bandaging. “Joy” —said the lips and her voice carried high lights scarcely dimmed by pain—“you are a darling. Miss Clark, I must have a glass of water!”
As the nurse vanished—“That was just to get her out. She’s always here. She drives me wild!” A little pause; and the figure stirred. “Joy—you’ll tell me, won’t you? My face—what’s going to come of it? It’s so cut—and no one will tell me—how it’s going to look.”
“How can anyone know so soon?” said Joy with taut lips. The brown eyes looked at her for a steadfast minute, over their horizon of bandaging.
“Never mind, Joy—I know. My face—oh, I can’t say it! But I know. I can feel there isn’t even much of it left.”