Winifred wrote again to her father. On Saturday the elderly man appeared. And no sooner did Winifred see the thick, rather short figure in its grey suit than a great yearning came over her.
“Father, I’m not satisfied with Joyce. I’m not satisfied with Doctor Wing.”
“Well, Winnie, dear, if you’re not satisfied we must have further advice, that is all.”
The sturdy, powerful, elderly man went upstairs, his voice sounding rather grating through the house, as if it cut upon the tense atmosphere.
“How are you, Joyce, darling?” he said to the child. “Does your knee hurt you? Does it hurt you, dear?”
“It does sometimes.” The child was shy of him, cold towards him.
“Well, dear, I’m sorry for that. I hope you try to bear it, and not trouble mother too much.”
There was no answer. He looked at the knee. It was red and stiff.
“Of course,” he said, “I think we must have another doctor’s opinion. And if we’re going to have it, we had better have it at once. Egbert, do you think you might cycle in to Bingham for Doctor Wayne? I found him very satisfactory for Winnie’s mother.”
“I can go if you think it necessary,” said Egbert.