But the girl shook her head: "I can't discuss dad's affairs with — with——"
"With a State Trooper," smiled Stormont. "That's all right, Eve. You don't have to."
There was a pause; Stormont stood beside the bed, looking down at her with his diffident, boyish smile. And the girl gazed back straight into his eyes — eyes she had so often looked into in her dreams.
"I'm going to cook you an egg and bring you some pie," he remarked, still smiling.
"Did dad say I am to stay in bed?"
"That was my inference. Do you feel very lame and sore?"
"My feet burn."
"You poor kid! … Would you let me look at them? I have a first-aid packet with me."
After a moment she nodded and turned her face on the pillow. He drew aside the cover a little, knelt down beside the bed.
Then he rose and went downstairs to the kitchen. There was hot water in the kettle. He fetched it back, bathed her feet, drew out from the cut and scratch the flakes of granite-grit and brier-points that still remained there.