"And he put his foot into the fountain, so we had to come home in a taxi right away and change his little shoe and stocking."
"That's right. Here, wait a minute, Chuck!" Luella unclasped the great yellow beads from around her neck and handed them to him. "You mustn't break mama's beads." She turned to the nurse. "Put them on my dresser, will you, after he's asleep?"
She felt a certain compassion for her son as she went away—the small enclosed life he led, that all children led, except in big families. He was a dear little rose, except on the days when she took care of him. His face was the same shape as hers; she was thrilled sometimes, and formed new resolves about life when his heart beat against her own.
In her own pink and lovely bedroom, she confined her attentions to her face, which she washed and restored. Doctor Moon didn't deserve a change of dress, and Luella found herself oddly tired, though she had done very little all day. She returned to the living-room, and they went in to dinner.
"Such a nice house, Mrs. Hemple," said Doctor Moon impersonally; "and let me congratulate you on your fine little boy."
"Thanks. Coming from a doctor, that's a nice compliment." She hesitated. "Do you specialize in children?"
"I'm not a specialist at all," he said. "I'm about the last of my kind—a general practitioner."
"The last in New York, anyhow," remarked Charles. He had begun rubbing his face nervously, and Luella fixed her eyes on Doctor Moon so that she wouldn't see. But at Charles's next words she looked back at him sharply.
"In fact," he said unexpectedly, "I've invited Doctor Moon here because I wanted you to have a talk with him to-night."
Luella sat up straight in her chair.