“Come,” she said, laying her hand on one of his brawny arms, “I have with me the bandages.” She sent a swift glance over him, and smiled. “But I see you have not the bottle. Is it in your cabin, Mr. Percivail?”
He flushed darkly under his coat of tan. His companions stared for a moment, and then went on.
“I am busy,” he said. “I haven't the time now, Madame Obosky. Thank you, just the same.” Then a sense of loyalty to the girl who had been kind to him impelled him to add: “Besides, Miss Clinton has been taking care of my hands. She has got used to dressing them, so I—”
“But it is my duty now,” she protested. “She owes so little to you and I so much. Come, let us procure the lotion. Where is your cabin?”
He held back. “You can't go to my cabin.”
“And why not?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Does not Miss Clinton go to your cabin?”
“No, she does not!”
“But she goes to the cabins of other men who are wounded. I have see her with my own eyes.”
“That's different. They can't come to her.”
She looked searchingly into his eyes.