I hesitated outside the door of my room, trying to think out what I should say to Heloise. But I could not think very clearly. Neither could I stand there indefinitely.
I went in, opening the door very softly, and closing it softly behind me. My principal thought, at the moment, was of getting across to my bureau and brushing my hair and straightening my tie before Heloise should see me. I could not bear to think of coming before her with these visible evidences of the struggle upon me.
But I could not get beyond the bed. I sank down on it, leaning against the footboard. I was sitting this way when Heloise came in.
She came swiftly toward me, a hundred questions in her eyes. She never before looked so lovely to me as standing there before me, blue of gown and eye—all blue, it seemed to me—something flushed with excitement, her under lip drawn in a little way between her teeth.
“Oh, Anthony,” she said, low and breathless, “you are hurt!”
I shook my head. But she was staring down at my left hand, that lay on my knee. My gaze followed hers. There was blood on my wrist. It must have run down my arm.
She helped me take off my coat, and with a small pair of scissors that she got from her room cut off my shirt sleeve at the shoulder. It was wet and stained with red.