“Nonsense!” I said, as forcefully as I could. “Nonsense! I'm not badly hurt. I am all right now. I don't want to go to a hospital. I won't go there. Take me to the hotel. I am all right, I tell you.”
The man's voice—the doctor's, I learned afterward—broke in, ordering me to be quiet. But I refused to be quiet. I was not going to be taken to any hospital.
“I am all right,” I declared. “Or I shall be in a little while. Take me to my hotel. I will be looked after, there. Hephzy will look after me.”
The doctor continued to protest—in French—and I to affirm—in English. Also I tried to stand. At length my declarations of independence seemed to have some effect, for they ceased trying to lift me. A dialogue in French followed. I heard it with growing impatience.
“Hephzy,” I said, fretfully. “Hephzy, make them take me to my hotel. I insist upon it.”
“Which hotel is it? Kent—Kent, answer me. What is the name of the hotel?”
I gave the name; goodness knows how I remembered it. There was more argument, and, after a time, the rattle and buzz and squeak began again. The next thing I remember distinctly is being carried to my room and hearing the voice of Monsieur Louis in excited questioning and command.
After that my recollections are clearer. But it was broad daylight when I became my normal self and realized thoroughly where I was. I was in my room at the hotel, the sunlight was streaming in at the window and Hephzy—I still supposed it was Hephzy—was sitting by that window. And for the first time it occurred to me that she should not have been there; by all that was right and proper she should be waiting for me in Interlaken.
“Hephzy,” I said, weakly, “when did you get here?”
The figure at the window rose and came to the bedside. It was not Hephzy. With a thrill I realized who it was.