“You’d have made a great trained nurse,” he murmured, as she adjusted the clean strips that Sherwen had sent in. “Don’t pin my ear down. It’s got to help hold my goggles on.”
“The dear funny goggles!” Picking them up, she patted them with dainty fingers, before setting them aside. He watched her uneasily, much in the manner of a dog whose bone has been taken away.
“Do you mind giving them back?” he said.
“But you’re not going to wear them here,” she protested.
“I’ve got so used to them,” he explained apologetically, “that I don’t feel really dressed without them.”
She handed them back and he adjusted them to the bandages. “For the present, rest is prescribed you know,” said she.
“Oh, no!” he declared. “As soon as I’ve had something to eat, I’ll go. There are a hundred things to be done. Where are my gloves?”
“What gloves? Oh, those white abominations? Why on earth do you wear them?” Her glance fell upon his right hand, which lay half-open beside him. “Oh—oh—oh!” she cried in a rising scale of distress. “What have you done to your hands?”
He reddened perceptibly.
“Nothing.”