The lame young violin-player came into the ward. She had cherished a secret and romantic affection for Max Wilson, and now he was in the hospital and ill. So she wore the sacrificial air of a young nun and played “The Holy City.”
Johnny was close on the edge of his long sleep by that time, and very comfortable.
“Tell her nix on the sob stuff,” he complained. “Ask her to play 'I'm twenty-one and she's eighteen.'”
She was rather outraged, but on K.'s quick explanation she changed to the staccato air.
“Ask her if she'll come a little nearer; I can't hear her.”
So she moved to the foot of the bed, and to the gay little tune Johnny began his long sleep. But first he asked K. a question: “Are you sure I'm going to walk, Mr. Le Moyne?”
“I give you my solemn word,” said K. huskily, “that you are going to be better than you have ever been in your life.”
It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's hands over his breast.
The violin-player stood by uncertainly.
“How very young he is! Was it an accident?”