“Take a little beef-tea, or a little rice pudding. Take nourishment, don’t take that muck. Do you hear—” charging upon the attendant women, who shrank against the wall—“she’s to have nothing alcoholic at all, and don’t let me catch you giving it her.”
“They say there’s nobbut fower per cent. i’ stout,” retorted the daring female.
“Fower per cent.,” mimicked the doctor brutally. “Why, what does an ignorant creature like you know about fower per cent.”
The woman muttered a little under her breath.
“What? Speak out. Let me hear what you’ve got to say, my woman. I’ve no doubt it’s something for my benefit—”
But the affronted woman rushed out of the room, and burst into tears on the landing. After which Dr. Mitchell, mollified, largely told the patient how she was to behave, concluding:
“Nourishment! Nourishment is what you want. Nonsense, don’t tell me you can’t take it. Push it down if it won’t go down by itself—”
“Oh doctor—”
“Don’t say oh doctor to me. Do as I tell you. That’s your business.” After which he marched out, and the rattle of his motor car was shortly heard.
Alvina got used to scenes like these. She wondered why the people stood it. But soon she realized that they loved it—particularly the women.