"In liquid and concentrated form," she interposed, and soon the glass of milk and Vichy water was at his lips.
It wearied him even to swallow that. He lay and watched her moving quietly about. When she laid a cool palm upon his brow to mark if the fever had subsided, he could have asked her to keep it there.
He had never experienced such a sense of weakness before—at least, within his adult remembrance. It was a curious thing—this sense of dependence upon a woman. And a woman so much stronger physically than himself.
Previous to this time many girls had seemed to Frank Sanderson soft little things—rather useless "play-toys"—were the truth to be told. He could not remember his mother. He was the youngest of a family of boys brought up in a somewhat haphazard fashion by a father who had loved their mother too well to bring another woman into his life.
The young man's social instincts were not well developed. He had been sent to a boys' school, and then to college. The athletic field had claimed his interest rather than fraternity life and social entertainments. And he had always looked with scorn upon those of his mates who allowed themselves to be lionized by silly women.
For two years now he had been devoted to aviation. With a moderate income at his disposal, and no expensive tastes to gratify, he was able to follow this bent. The elder Sanderson was dead. Frank's brothers were scattered—all in business in various cities. Aside from his fellow aviators, the members of the two or three clubs he belonged to, and a few boyhood friends, he was a man alone.
Now began for him a series of incidents that were both strange and delightful. He had never been so near, or so familiar with, such a girl as this before.
"So different from Stella!" he murmured to himself. "Vastly different from Stella!"
The wound in his shoulder was healing nicely; but as an aid to this improvement he had to be moved with extreme care. Belinda Melnotte's strength, as well as her unstinted attention, was of great assistance—greater than the mere medical skill expended upon the case.
The black-bearded, black-eyed surgeon came occasionally and examined the wound; but it was the nurse who always dressed it. The cut upon Sanderson's forehead was of course soon healed.