“A nasty cut.”
Pennyweight hesitated between restive fright and awe of all these gentlewomen.
“Hadn’t I better go t’ Mr. Lavender, mum? It does bleed.”
“Nonsense, Pennyweight! Miss Ronan, would you mind going in and ringing for the housekeeper? Tell her I want some clean linen, and some hot water and boracic acid.”
Miss Whiffen was interested but alarmed.
“It’s a cut artery. We ought to compress the brachial artery.”
“Isn’t it the femoral?”
“No, that’s in the leg. You squeeze the arm just——”
“Exactly. Along the inside seam of the sleeve.”
“But he has no coat on.”