He removed the shoe. The buckles were cutting into the flesh.
“No bones broken, I think,” he said, after a brief survey, “but a bad sprain.”
With the scissors which every store clerk carries he cut away the foot of the stocking. The ankle was badly swollen and discoloured.
Gardiner removed his coat and deftly cut the lining out of it. This he cut into strips, and, dipping the strips in water, bandaged the injured member. Presently the inflammation was somewhat relieved and the pain became more bearable.
“You are very good,” the girl whispered. “I feel better now.”
“I am glad of that,” he answered. “The accident is most regrettable, and the fault is all mine.”
“Not at all. It was an accident, and an accident is not a fault.”
“Do you believe that these accidents are preordained—that they are part of some great scheme of management, that we but vaguely recognise?”
“I don’t know. I suppose there is a purpose to all things—even to this sprained ankle.” She smiled faintly. “If there is no purpose in little things there can be no purpose in life, as life is made up of little things.”
He seized at her answer. “And what purpose, can you guess, lay behind this mishap?”