Whimperingly the Little Girl came crawling to him, and, settling down close at his feet, began with her tiny lace handkerchief to make futile dabs at the mud-stains on his gray silk stockings.
“Never mind, Father,” she coaxed; “we’ll get you clean sometime.”
Nervously the White Linen Nurse bethought her of the brook. “Oh, wait a minute, sir, and I’ll get you a drink of water,” she pleaded.
Bruskly the Senior Surgeon’s hand jerked out and grabbed at her skirt.
“Don’t leave me!” he begged. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”
Weakly he struggled up again and sat staring piteously at the blazing car. His unrelinquished clutch on the White Linen Nurse’s skirt brought her sinking softly down beside him like a collapsed balloon. Together they sat and watched the gaseous yellow flames shoot up into the sky.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” piped the Little Girl.
“Eh?” groaned the Senior Surgeon.
“Father,” persisted the shrill little voice—“Father, do people ever burn up?”
“Eh?” gasped the Senior Surgeon. Brutally the harsh, shuddering sobs began to rack and tear again through his great chest.