“Mamma! You here?”
Oscar came skipping out of the house, making one long leap from the drawing-room window to the railing of the veranda. Then he ran toward his mother, arms stretched out to hug her.
“Nice little fellow,” Dr. Vessinger remarked propitiatingly. “Won’t you come here, little man?”
“No, no!” the mother objected hastily. “Run away, Oscar. Ask Dora to take you to the Laurels. It will be shady and cool there.”
The child looked steadily and curiously at the doctor.
“Who is that gentleman, mamma?” he demanded.
“Ha, ha, well said!” the doctor laughed. “He wants to know who your friends are, madam. He will manage you one of these days. Come here, sir!”
Instead of running forward at the doctor’s invitation, the child backed steadily into his mother’s dress, eying the stranger with dislike. Mrs. Simmons glanced up at the doctor, surprised and annoyed at his conduct. Did he not understand? How could he anger the child, perhaps provoke one of his frightful paroxysms? It was disagreeable in him to dwell thus on her misery, to play with the child.
“Go away, Oscar,” she said, leading him away from the terrace.
At the same moment Dr. Vessinger walked toward the mother and child. Oscar stood still, his limbs stiffening, his under lip trembling. Tears began to gather in the mother’s eyes. She was frightened, and she hated the imperious man.