Virginia gave no heed to the concluding sentence. A look of alarm spread over her face. “He struck the car an awful blow. It fairly lifted it. Was that his head?” she gasped.
“Possibly,” admitted the dancing eyed nurse. “His headache is severe. But he’ll be over that in the morning.”
Another matter of anxiety recurred to the girl. “How’s his fever?” she troubled, her eyes big with pity.
“Fever!” Surprise claimed the nurse as its own. “Now what ever put that into your head?”
“I held his hand when we brought him here. It was very hot.”
“Oh, I see,” admitted the nurse with a solemnity of tone which belied her tell-tale orbs. “What a little helper you were. You held the patient’s hand, and, discovering it to be warm, you believed him dead.”
“Wasn’t it strange?” Virginia gravely pursued her own line of thought. “It seemed to me that he wanted me to hold his hand, so I did.”
“Kind girl,” the nurse complimented her, and then, as from a wealth of experience, explained, “I never knew a man who disliked to hold hands. Certainly a motorcyclist would have no compunctions about it. Don’t worry about fever in this case.”
“You are laughing at me again. You love to tease me,” protested Virginia.
“I can’t help it after seeing that motorcyclist.”