“No, come here,” she said, as I began to move towards the door.
I returned to her side and gently lifted her arm.
“Yes, you have hurt yourself,” I remarked. “See—your arm, isn’t it?—there is blood—”
“Yes, it’s my arm,” she replied, lifting her cloak and showing a ragged tear in the blouse on the under-side of the sleeve. “It’s not very bad—I think—but it seems to be bleeding a good deal, and I—I am afraid of blood.”
“May I look at it?” I asked. “I could perhaps bandage it, and—”
“Are you a doctor—how nice!” she cried.
“No,” I replied with a smile, “I am not a doctor. But I am a first-aid expert, enough of one, anyway, to say whether or not a doctor is necessary. Yes, I have treated much bigger injuries than this. It is only a scratch, I fancy, and the blood looks more than it really is. A very little blood makes a mess of things. Lie still a minute. I have everything here within reach and we’ll soon put you right.”
I brought a pair of scissors and cut away the sleeve, finding the arm beneath it—the left arm, by the way—rather badly gashed.
“To-morrow you must show that to a doctor,” I said when I had washed and bandaged it. “Now I will give you a glass of wine and—”
“Is there anyone but you in the house?” the girl asked abruptly, as if some thought had suddenly occurred to her.