“Things do sure happen at the wrong time. But how did you manage that?”
She told him in low, self-reproachful tones, and winced again as a movement of the injured arm brought agony.
“Say, that’s bad.”
“Yes. I know. Without the dogs——”
“Oh, darn the dogs! I meant your arm. It’s hurting you a heap. Ain’t you had a look at it?”
“Not yet. It’s rather a job getting my dress undone.”
He promptly walked across the room, and in a few seconds came back with two huge red handkerchiefs.
“Sit you down,” he ordered. “We’ll start on this right now. How do you manage this arrangement?”
“It—it unbuttons at the back,” she stammered.
She felt his big inexperienced hand at work on the buttons, and soon her dress was slipped over 253 the injured shoulder. A little hiss escaped him as the round white arm came to view, with a hideous black bruise around the shoulder-joint. She stole one look at his face, and saw his perturbed countenance surveying the injury.