Fru Hermansen turned round, set her foot upon a chair, and busied herself with underclothing, tying and untying here and there, and muttering to herself the while.
“There, you have a look at it,” she said at last, with a laugh, and faced round again.
She had a rag in her mouth, and her face was flushed from bending down. Her skirts were lifted to her knees.
From the ankle up over the shin, almost to the kneecap, was a long red sore, yellowish in the centre. It looked horribly like a trail of some climbing plant.
Egholm put out a hand as if to ward off the sight, and looked away. But the would-be patient said harshly:
“And you going to be a doctor! If you can’t abide the smell of hot bread, then it’s no good going for a baker!”
Egholm overcame his reluctance, knelt down, and began examining the leg, from the greenish-faded stocking that was gathered like an ankle-ring at the bottom, to the knee, where a garter had cut deep brownish-red furrows.
“Here’s the mischief,” he said, nodding wisely. “The blood can’t get past here, and that’s why it can’t heal. You’ll have to stop wearing garters at once.”
“Easy to hear it’s a man that’s talking,” laughed Fru Egholm.