Fifi returned directly with white cloths, scissors, and two large bottles.
"I won't take hardly a minute—you see! Listen, Mr. Queed. One of these bottles heals fairly well and doesn't hurt at all worth mentioning. That's witch-hazel. The other heals very well and fast, but stings—well, a lot; and that's turpentine. Which will you take?"
"The turpentine," said Mr. Queed in a martyr's voice.
Fifi's hands were very deft. In less than no time, she made a little lint pad, soaked it in the pungent turpentine, applied it to the unsightly swelling, and bound it firmly to the young man's head with a snowy band. In all of Mr. Queed's life, this was the first time that a woman had ministered to him. To himself, he involuntarily confessed that the touch of the girl's hands upon his forehead was not so annoying as you might have expected.
Fifi drew off and surveyed her work sympathetically yet professionally. The effect of the white cloth riding aslant over the round glasses and academic countenance was wonderfully rakish and devil-may-care.
"Do you feel the sting much so far?"
"A trifle," said the Doctor.
"It works up fast to a kind of—climax, as I remember, and then slowly dies away. The climax will be pretty bad—I'm so sorry! But when it's at its worst just say to yourself, 'This is doing me lots and lots of good,' and then you won't mind so much."
"I will follow the directions," said he, squirming in his chair.
"Thank you for letting me do it, and for the algebra, and—good-night."