Out of darkness and peace, Mr. Cecil Barth drifted slowly backward to
the consciousness of the glare of the sunshine, of a babel of foreign
tongues and of two points of physical anguish, centering respectively in
a bruised head and a sprained ankle. He closed his eyes again; but he
was unable to close his ears. Still too weak to make any effort upon his
own behalf, he wondered vaguely when those clacking tongues would cease,
and their owners begin to do something for his relief.
“Stand out of the way, please. He needs air.”
The words were English; the accent unmistakably American. Barth pinched
his lids together in a sturdy determination not to manifest any interest
in his alien champion. For that reason, he missed the imperative gesture
which explained the words to the crowd; he missed the anxious, kindly
light in Nancy Howard’s eyes, as she elbowed her way to his side and
bent down over him.
“You are hurt?” she questioned briefly.
Even in this strait, Barth remained true to his training. He opened his
eyes for the slightest possible glance at the broad black hat above him.
Then he shut them languidly once more.
“Rather!” he answered, with equal brevity.
The corners of Nancy’s mouth twitched ominously. It was not thus that
her ministrations were wont to be received. Accustomed to fulsome
gratitude, the absolute indifference of this stranger both amused and
piqued her.
“You are American?” she asked.
This time, Barth’s eyes remained open.
“English,” he returned laconically.
Again Nancy’s lips twitched.
“I beg your pardon. I might have known,” she answered, with a feigned
contrition whose irony escaped her companion. “But you speak French?”
“Not this kind. I shall have to leave it to you.” In spite of the
racking pain in his ankle, Barth was gaining energy to rebel at his
short sight and the loss of his glasses. It would have been interesting
to get a good look into the face of this intrepid young woman who had
come to his rescue.
She received his last statement a little blankly.
“But I don’t speak any French of any kind,” she confessed.
“How unusual!” Barth murmured, with vague courtesy.
Nancy rose from her knees and dusted off her skirt.
“I don’t see why. I’ve never been abroad, and we don’t habitually speak
French at home,” she answered a little resentfully.
Barth made no reply. All the energy he could spare from bearing the pain
of his ankle was devoted to the study of how he could get himself out of
his present position. His gravelly resting-place was uncomfortable, and
it appeared to him that his foot was swelling to most unseemly
dimensions. Nevertheless, he had no intention of throwing himself upon
the mercy of a strange American girl of unknown years and ancestry.
Raising himself on his elbow, he addressed the bystanders in the best
Parisian French at his command. The bystanders stared back at him
uncomprehendingly.
Standing beside him, Nancy saw his dilemma, saw, too, the bluish ring
about his lips. Her amused resentment gave place to pity.
“I am afraid you are badly hurt,” she said gently.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“My ankle.”
“Sprained?”
“Broken, I am afraid.” Barth’s answers still were brief; but now it was
the brevity of utter meekness, not of arrogance.
“Oh, I hope not!” she exclaimed. “You can’t walk at all?”
Gritting his teeth together, Barth struggled up into a sitting posture.
“I am afraid not. It was foolish to faint; but I hit my head as I went
down, and the blow knocked me out.”
As he spoke, he bent forward and tried to reach the laces of his shoe.
With a swift gesture, Nancy forestalled him and deftly slipped the shoe
from the swollen ankle. Her quick eye caught the fact that few of her
friends at home could match the quality of the stocking within. Then her
glance roved to his necktie, and she smiled approvingly to herself. In
her girlish mind, Barth would pass muster.
Nevertheless, there was nothing especially heroic about him, as he sat
there on the gravel with his ankle clasped in his hands and the color
rising and dying in his cheeks. A man barely above the middle height,
spare and sinewy and without an ounce of extra flesh, Cecil Barth was in
no way remarkable. His features were good, his hair was tawny yellow,
and his near-sighted eyes were clear and blue.
“Where can I find a surgeon?” he asked, after a little pause.
“I don’t know, unless—” Nancy hesitated; then she added directly, “My
father is a doctor.”
He nodded.
“And speaks English?” he queried.
Nancy bravely suppressed her laughter.
“New York English,” she replied gravely.