“I really don’t know––I suppose it is medicine.” She heard her uncle turn in his bed at the sound of voices. Thinking only that he must not at any cost see de Spain, Nan stepped quickly into the hall and faced the messenger. “I was over at the doctor’s office just now,” continued her visitor evenly, “he asked me to bring this down for your uncle.” She took the package with an 243 incoherent acknowledgment. Without letting her eyes meet his, she was conscious of how fresh and clean and strong he looked, dressed in a livelier manner than usual––a partly cowboy effect, with a broader Stetson and a gayer tie than he ordinarily affected. De Spain kept on speaking: “The telephone girl in the office down-stairs told me to come right up. How is your uncle?”
She regarded him wonderingly: “He has a good deal of pain,” she answered quietly.
“Too bad he should have been hurt in such a way. Are you pretty well, Nan?” She thanked him.
“Have you got over being mad at me?” he asked.
“No,” she averred resolutely.
“I’m glad you’re not,” he returned, “I’m not over being mad at myself. Haven’t seen you for a long time. Stay here a good deal, do you?”
“All the time.”
“I’ll bet you don’t know what day this is?”
Nan looked up the corridor, but she answered to the point: “You’d lose.”
“It’s our anniversary.” She darted a look of indignant disclaimer at him. But in doing so she met his eyes. “Have you seen the decorations in Main Street?” he asked indifferently. “Come out for a minute and look at them.”