“There’s nothing that you can do. I’m waiting for Mrs. Mathews and the doctor from the agency.”
“You can go up and rest until they come, Frances, you look so tired and pale. I’ll watch by him—you can tell me what to do, and I’ll call you when they come.”
“No; I’ll stay until—I’ll stay here.”
“Oh, please go, Frances; you’re nearly dead on your feet.”
“Why do you want me to leave him?” Frances asked, in a flash of jealous suspicion. She turned to Nola, as if to search out her hidden intention.
“You were asleep in your chair when I came in, Frances,” Nola chided her, gently.
Again they stood in silence, looking down upon the 276 wounded man. Frances was resentful of Nola’s interest in him, of her presence in the room. She was on the point of asking her to leave when Nola spoke.
“If he hadn’t been so proud, if he’d only stooped to explain things to us, to talk to us, even, this could have been avoided, Frances.”
“What could he have said?” Frances asked, wondering, indeed, what explanation could have lessened his offense in Saul Chadron’s eyes.
“If I had known him, I would have understood,” Nola replied, vaguely, in soft low voice, as if communing with herself.