“On the contrary, quite simple. If it is handled wisely. But it means—pain. Not a great deal; but still, pain.”
“An operation?”
Dr. Strong nodded. “Merely a minor one. I’ve sounded Mrs. Clyde, without her knowing it, and she will oppose it. Mrs. Sharpless, too, I fear. You know how women dread suffering for the children they love.”
Again Mr. Clyde winced. “It’s—it’s necessary, of course,” he said.
“Not to do it would be both stupid and cruel. Shall we call in the women and have it out with them?”
For reply, Mr. Clyde pressed a button and sent the servant who responded, for Mrs. Clyde and her mother. Grandma Sharpless arrived first, took stock of the men’s grave faces, and sat down silently, folding her strong, competent hands in her lap. But no sooner had Mrs. Clyde caught sight of her husband’s face than her hand went to her throat.
“What is it?” she said. “The children—”
“Nothing to be alarmed about, Mrs. Clyde,” said Dr. Strong quickly. He pushed a chair toward her. “Sit down. It’s a question of—of what I might call carpenter-work”—the mother laughed a nervous relief—“on Betty.”
“Betty?” Her fears fluttered in her voice. “What about Betty?”
“She needs repairing; that’s all.”