It is regrettable to be obliged to say that she didn’t keep her promise. Even Mrs. MacAdams could have done better, had she tried.
Dr. Joe didn’t notice this, though. He was filled with delight at his dinner party. He bustled about, pulling chairs up to the table, and turning on more lights. His big, hearty voice was plainly audible to the patients in the waiting room, and they wondered how he could be so cheerful when they were not.
“Now, then!” he said.
He was sitting at the head of the table, and Miss Ryan—that was her name—was at the foot, with Frankie between them, and the whole thing seemed to him extraordiarily jolly. There was something on his plate, and he was about to eat it, when he observed Miss Ryan lay her hand on Frankie’s arm and whisper to him.
“I don’t care!” said Frankie, aloud. “I’m hungry!”
Miss Ryan’s face grew scarlet, and Dr. Joe frowned.
“Come now, my boy!” he said. “This won’t do!”
“I’m hungry!” said Frankie, with something like a sob. “Bread an’ butter isn’t enough!”
“But hasn’t he got—what has he got, anyhow?” inquired Dr. Joe, puzzled.
“I don’t know,” said Miss Ryan; “but—I’d rather he didn’t eat it.”