“You lie,” said Ravant. “I told you that it is my own head. Why don’t you want me to drink it?”
“Drink it!” begged the nurse, now in terror of him. “Please do!”
“I won’t! You’re both too dam’ anxious!”
He flung the frail glass against the wall, where it was broken. Then he turned his back upon the nurse, and, gripping the iron rods of his bed, bent them until they doubled and parted. He slept a little presently—breathing like a wounded beast. When he woke the little nurse was wiping up the spilled liquor. The terrible fragrance infested his very soul.
“Open the window!” Ravant shouted. “You are torturing me!”
The girl did this.
“Why did you make me smell the dam’ stuff?”
Then, a little more gently, before she could answer:
“Thank you. I can’t stand the smell of it—not the smell.”
The nurse laid a brave hand on his.