“Oscar! Oscar!” But neither nurse nor child paid any attention to her.
“He is occupied with a greater passion,” the doctor laughed.
“Unconscious little animals, children,” observed one of the women.
“He has temperament—”
“His mother’s?” another woman suggested slyly. She was large, very blonde, very well preserved, and was known by her intimates as “the Magnificent Wreck.”
The shrill cries penetrated at last even the room beyond the large drawing-room where the people were gathered, and aroused the father, who had been called on a matter of business into the study. He stepped briskly into the room,—a handsome man of forty, with black curling hair and crisp black beard cut to a point. His cheek-bones were high, and the skin of his upper face was ruddy, as from much living in the open air.
“What is the matter with the boy?” he demanded abruptly.
“Just a case of ‘I don’t want to,’” observed Dr. Vessinger. “When we are young and feel that way, we let the world know it all of a sudden.”
“And when we are grown,” joined in the large, blonde woman, smiling at the doctor, “we say nothing, but do as we like.”
“If we can,” added a young woman, with nervous anxiety to be in the conversation.