"Precisely. I'm almost a doctor, and I'm going to see that no dirt is left in your wounds to scar you. Don't be foolish, Miss Wyndham; it's not exactly a ceremonious occasion."
Barbara submitted with no further demur, and soon her face was adorned with strips of court-plaster laid on in a plaid pattern.
"Shall I be scarred?" she asked, surveying the crisscross lines on the bridge of her nose.
"Not a bit," said Doctor Leighton, cheerfully. "Mrs. Black might give you a cup of tea to brace you up."
"Yes," said Mrs. Black, without enthusiasm.
"No, thanks; I hate tea, and I'll be all right. There's the boy back with the new pots," said Barbara.
"Let me help you get the plants in, and I'll settle with the boy, because it's all Nixie's fault," said the young doctor. "Not a word! Get to work, Miss Wyndham."
He placed papers on the floor in the rear hall, apparently oblivious to Mrs. Black's icy disapproval, which inexperienced Barbara found oppressive.
"My father and your father were friends," said the young fellow, packing the earth around a begonia. "I knew you were coming here to board, and I know about the hard blow you've had. It's a shame, and it's all the fault of that scoundrel Abbott."