"I have had a lot of nursing experience, I can do it," said the widow; and she began to handle the bandages very gently. "But what kind of massage do you mean?" "That will depend upon the condition in which we find them. I believe they will have to be rubbed by being passed through cloth." This somewhat recondite description of putting them through my coat sleeve puzzled her completely. "I never heard of anything like that," she said, wrinkling her forehead in perplexity; now quite serious. "But whoever put these on? I never saw anything so clumsy in my life. I must cut this one," and as she turned away to find scissors, I took occasion to give Mercy a glance, which not only relieved her anxiety, but changed her into an accomplice. "Poor old Nand," she cried, in quite a tearful voice, but laughing to me with her eyes. "Be careful, Angela. Shall I do it, dear?" "Do you think I can’t take a bandage off?" was the reply, with some sharpness, as she came back with the scissors. "Ah, oh!" I cried, wincing as if she hurt me at the next touch. "Please be careful. I can’t bear pain a bit." "Men never can," she retorted. "I’m sure I scarcely touched you. But if it’s as bad as that, I’ll be careful," she added, earnestly; and the little farce proceeded, she unwinding the clumsy bandage I had put on, and I wincing and "ah-ing" and grimacing, until the hand was uncovered, and the fingers—bloodless, of course, from the ligature—were exposed to view. "What’s the matter with them?" she said, examining them closely. "It came on suddenly." I explained. "And now for the cloth massage. Gently." "What is cloth massage?" "Why, massage with cloth, of course. Wait, I have it;" and without more ado about nothing, I thrust my arm through the sleeve of my coat, and held out my hand to shake hers. "The most wonderful cure on record. Thank you so much." Mercy burst out laughing, but Mrs. Curwen coloured with vexation. "What does it mean? You’ve been fooling," she cried. "I call it horrid of you;" and as she turned away I saw tears of vexation start to her eyes. Then I repented. "Forgive me. Honestly, I am sorry and did not mean to vex you. There is a meaning to all this, and some day I’ll tell you both, and the tale will surprise you, probably." "I’ll forgive you if you’re going to stay and take us nut, and then come back to dinner. Your friend Mr. Mayhew is coming. We’re going to the Opera. The young King is to be there, and the Queen. It’s to be a real gala show." "I should like to see the young King," I replied, truthfully enough, indeed. "But I can’t manage to dine with you. Give me the number of your box, and if I can get my work done I’ll try and join you there. I must be off now, in fact." "You seem to be very hard-worked at the Embassy," she replied. "This is not purely Embassy work; it’s rather extra-official than otherwise."