“Well, Bathurst, let us hear it from you.”
“It is a painful story for me to have to tell.”
Isobel looked up in surprise.
“Painful, Mr. Bathurst? I should have thought—” and she stopped.
“Not all painful, Miss Hannay, but in parts. I would rather tell you, Doctor, when we have finished our journey this evening, if your curiosity will allow you to wait so long.”
“I will try to wait,” the Doctor replied, “though I own it is a trial. Now, Isobel, you have not told me yet what has happened to your face. Let me look at it closer, child. I see your arms are bad, too. What on earth has happened to you?”
“I burnt myself with acid, Doctor. Mr. Bathurst will tell you all about it.”
“Bless me, mystery seems to thicken. Well, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle. Why, child, burns of that sort leave scars as bad as if you had been burnt by fire. You ought to be in a dark room with your face and hands bandaged, instead of tramping along here in the sun.”
“I have some lotions and some ointment, Doctor. I have used them regularly since it was done, and the places don't hurt me much now.”
“No, they look healthy enough,” he said, examining them closely. “Granulation is going on nicely; but I warn you you will be disfigured for months, and it may be years before you get rid of the scars. I doubt, indeed, if you will ever get rid of them altogether. Well, well, what shall we talk about?”