“Oh, my!” cried Madeline, in despair. “Oh, my! What ever will I do with the poor feller?”
She dipped a folded napkin in water, and laid it on his forehead. A glance in the mirror startled her. In her white uniform, wasn’t she just like a trained nurse with a wounded hero? The vision inspired her. She felt that she must be calm, brave, resourceful.
Somewhat timidly she lifted his limp, white hand, to feel his pulse; but, having little idea how a pulse should behave, she gained no reassurance.
“Poor feller!” she repeated. “Anyway, I’m not going to leave you, if I have to sit here the whole night!”
She would have done that, and would have faced Mr. Compson and her sister workers the next morning undaunted, if she had not been saved by the entrance of Mr. Ritchie.
III
To the casual observer there was nothing heroic in Ritchie’s coming, but truly it was heroic. It had cost him a horrible effort to subdue his outrageous pride, to forego the Coyotes’ dance, and to return here for the ungracious Madeline. And how did he find her? Bending over a strange man in evening dress, all alone, long after the place should have been closed!
“Well!” he said. “What’s all this?”
With vehement indignation Madeline told him the story of the base desertion of the helpless sufferer.
“And what am I going to do with him?” she ended. “It’s the worst I ever heard—going off and leaving him like this!”