The powder did no good. The day came when, the dressing over and the white coverings drawn up smoothly again over her slender body, the Avenue Girl voiced the question that her eyes had asked each time.
"Am I going to lie in this hole all my life?" she demanded.
The interne considered.
"It isn't healing—not very fast anyhow," he said. "If we could get a little skin to graft on you'd be all right in a jiffy. Can't you get some friends to come in? It isn't painful and it's over in a minute."
"Friends? Where would I get friends of that sort?"
"Well, relatives then—some of your own people?"
The Avenue Girl shut her eyes as she did when the dressing hurt her.
"None that I'd care to see," she said. And the Probationer knew she lied. The interne shrugged his shoulders.
"If you think of any let me know. We'll get them here," he said briskly, and turned to see the Probationer rolling up her sleeve.
"Please!" she said, and held out a bare white arm. The interne stared at it stupefied. It was very lovely.