There was a gash in my upper arm.
She held up the arm and looked closely at it. I liked the direct, practical way she went about it.
“It is n't an artery,” she mused, studying the wound. “Not a big one, anyway.” And she washed it, and drew it together with plaster from my emergency kit, and bandaged it very neatly. Then she helped me to lie down—brought pillows from her own room to place behind my head.
She did not ask one question; just worked to make me comfortable. Finally she sat on the edge of the bed, and critically looked me over.
“You'll be all right,” she said thoughtfully. “I know one thing that is the matter. We both forgot all about luncheon.”
I had not thought of it.
“Well,” she went on, “I feel a little faint myself. I couldn't think what on earth was the matter until it came over me all at once that I've eaten nothing to-day but one very small breakfast.”
I let her ring for the waiter and order food. During this space of time I lay still, trying to think how I should tell her. Every moment it grew harder. But at last I caught her hand, when she was passing the bed, and drew her down beside me. She knew well enough what was on my mind, but she only stroked my forehead with her soft, cool fingers.
In this time, so pregnant for her, and so painful, she was thinking how she might spare me!
I told her exactly what had taken place; clumsily enough but, at least, clearly.