"Please don't talk," ordered this new Doctor Mac briefly.
Father laid his hand upon my forehead.
"Is the pain better, dear?" he asked, with that break in his voice which always comes when he knows that I am suffering.
I tried to flash triumph into the blue eyes, and responded, "Yes." Then, as My Demon's jaws took a fresh hold on my spinal column, "Oh—no—!"
There was a low-voiced consultation, and then father said, reassuringly,
"Don't talk, Mavis dear, and lie quiet. Doctor Denton is going to give you something to relieve you."
I felt six years old again, and resentful to find father going over to the enemy. But I was grateful, that, after all, our own dear Doctor Mac had not been metamorphosed into an ogre with icicle eyes. As the tiny, merciful piston went home, I said feebly, with malice aforethought.
"Hello—Doctor Jumpy!"
And the last thing I saw before I fell asleep was his startled face. And in my first half-dreams, I found myself repeating, childishly, "He did jump! He did. And I made him!"
And that, Dear Diary, was my informal introduction to the nervous nephew of Mr. John Denton.