Mrs. Jimmie was just behind him, and I saw her turn pale. In a flash I
saw myself disfigured for life, and probably having to be sewed up.
The pain in my face became excruciating, and I began to think yachting
rather serious business.
"Run for the doctor, Jimmie," said his wife. Jimmie obediently ran.
"Does it hurt very much, dear?" she said, sitting on the edge of the
bed.
"Awfully," I murmured.
The doctor came, followed by Francois, with a basin of hot water and
sponges, and a nasty-looking little case of instruments. Mrs. Jimmie
held my hand. They turned on the electric lights and opened the
windows. Jimmie had my salts. The doctor carefully wet a sponge and
tenderly bathed my cheek, and I held my breath ready to shriek if he
hurt me. Commodore Strossi stood at the door with an anxious face.
Suddenly the doctor reached for a broken bottle half hidden under my
pillow.
"Oh, what is it, doctor?" asked Mrs. Jimmie. "What makes you look so
queer?"
"This is iodine on her face. Her bottle has emptied itself. That is
all."
We gazed at each other for a moment or two, then I nearly went into
hysterics.
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