“Come, dear,” she urged. “Come with mamma. Be good and do as I want you to.”
She had leaned down to him, and he threw one arm about her neck and drew her close to him, looking defiantly at the doctor.
“Is he the man who makes you cry, mamma?” he asked. “Send him away. I will drive him away!”
As the mother watched him, standing there with his head thrown back, the black curls falling on his brown neck, he recalled to her vividly his father. She had seen the man in something like the attitude of the child. Commanding, erect, noble, defiant,—so she had seen him and worshipped him during the months of their ardent first love. The little mite was like her lover born again.
“Fiery little devil, isn’t he?” the doctor remarked, hesitating and disconcerted. “Looks as if he would like to smash me, stick a knife into me, or something. Handsome, though!”
“I think you had better sit down,” Mrs. Simmons answered coldly. As the man stood irresolute, she added vehemently:
“Why do you tease the child? Go back!”
The doctor turned back to his chair sulkily. The mother kissed the boy’s face, gently loosening the grasp of the strong little arm about her neck. “Come, Oscar,” she whispered. “We will go together!”
She led him from the terrace, he looking backward constantly and scowling at the unacceptable guest.
“Send him away, mamma,” he said. “I don’t like him.”