"Yes, it's all right, Miss. How about you?"—a twinkle in his eye. "If this ... if you don't think you can stand it to fuss with him—" he began, but she cut him off with a look that contained something of a quality of reassurance, but which was more obviously a rebuff.
"I said I could help you. Why do you keep doubting me?"
"I don't; I'm tryin' to be careful of your feelings,"—averting his eyes that she might not see the quick fire of appreciation in them. "Will you tighten it with that stick, now, Miss?"
The man on the bed breathed loudly, uncouthly, with now and then a short, sharp moan. The sour smell of stale liquor was about him; the arm and hand that had been washed were the only clean parts of his body.
"Now you twist it," Bayard said, when she was ready, although he could have done it easily with his free hand.
She grasped the stick with determination and, as she turned it quickly to take up the slack in the loop, Bayard leaned back, part of his weight on the elbow which kept the legs of the unconscious man from threshing too violently as the contrivance shut down on his arm. His attention, however, was not for their patient; it was centered on the girl's hands as they manipulated stick and towel. They were the smallest hands, the trimmest, he had ever seen. The fingers were incredibly fine-boned and about them was a nicety, a finish, that was beyond his experience; yet, they were not weak hands; rather, competent looking. He watched their quick play, the spring of the tendons in her white wrist and, with a new interest, detected a smooth white mark about the third finger of her left hand where a ring had been. He looked into her intent face again, wondering what sort of ring that had been and why it was no longer there; then, forgot all about it in seeing the tight line of her mouth and finding delight in the splendid curve of her chin.
"You hate to do it," he thought, "but you're goin' to see it through!"
"There!" she said, under her breath. "Is that tight enough?"
He looked quickly away from her face to the wound and released the pressure of his thumb.
"Not quite. It oozes a little."