CONVALESCENCE
"Where did you get your splints?" asked Geoffrey. "Was this thing all arranged beforehand? you confess to the bandages in your trunk."
Vesta laughed. "Your poor cigars! I tumbled them out of their box with very little ceremony. See them, scattered all over the table! I must put them tidy."
She moved to the table, and began piling the cigars in a hollow square.
"A cigar-box makes excellent splints," she said; "did you ever try it?"
But Geoffrey was thinking what a singular amount of light a white dress seemed to bring into a room, and did not immediately reply.
When he did speak, he said, "You watched me—I kept you up all night. I ought to be shot."
"That would be twice as troublesome," said Vesta, gravely; "I can set an arm, but I don't know anything about wounds, except theoretically. Perhaps you would'nt like theoretic treatment."
"Perhaps not. Was there—it seems a perfectly absurd question to ask, but—well, was any one playing the 'cello here last night? why do you laugh?"
"Only because you seem to have the 'cello so on your mind. You said such funny things last night, while you were light-headed, you know."
Geoffrey became conscious of the roots of his hair. "What did I say?" he asked.