She knelt down in front of Della, put the injured foot in the hot water and began bathing it while Della stared down at Jane’s bowed head, her lips compressed tightly. Cultus came and stood in the doorway, watching the operation. Della didn’t look at him; she was looking down at Jane, tears running down her cheeks, her lips twisted with a misery which was not caused by her injured ankle.
Harry came in through the kitchen, carrying the liniment bottle, which he had had difficulty in finding. Cultus stopped him from entering the living-room, and together they rolled smokes in the kitchen.
Jane happened to glance up at Della.
“Does it hurt so badly?” she asked, her voice full of sympathy.
“Hurt?” hoarsely. “Good God, it hurts worse than anything I ever had happen to me.”
“This water will ease it, I think. Harry should be here with the liniment. You can move your foot; so I don’t think it’s a break.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the foot,” she said painfully. “It’s you—bathing my hurts. That’s what hurts me.”
“Why, that’s all right. Isn’t your name Della.?”
“Yes—just Della. The rest of the name was forgotten years ago.”
“Maybe some day you’ll remember it again.”