On my way down it was only human, of course, to stop in the May Girl's room. Rollins or no Rollins it was the May Girl's problem that seemed to me the only really maddening one of the moment. What in creation was life planning to proffer the May Girl?—Dr. Brawne?—Dr. Brawne?—It wasn't just a question of Dr. Brawne! But a question of the May Girl herself?
She was still in her blanket-wrapper when I entered the room, but had hopped into bed, and sat bolt-up-right rocking vaguely, with her knees gathered to her chin in the circle of her slender arms.
"What seems to be the matter?" I questioned.
"That's what I don't know," she dimpled almost instantly. "But I seem to be worrying about something.
"Worrying?" I puzzled.
"Well,—maybe it's about the Pom dog," suggested the May Girl helpfully. "His mouth is so very—very tiny. Do you think he had enough supper?"
"Oh, I'm sure he had enough supper," I hastened to reassure her.
Very reflectively she narrowed her eyes to review the further field of her possible worries.
"That cat—that your Husband said he sent away just before I came for fear I'd bring some—some contradictory animals—are you quite sure that he's got a good home?" she worried.
"Oh, the best in the world," I said. "A Maternity Hospital!"