“I don’t know what you mean! Is she hurt?”
“Not at all. She is breathing wrong. She breathes through her mouth.”
“Oh!” There was reassurance and a measure even of contempt in Mrs. Clyde’s voice. “Lots of children do that. Perhaps she’s got a little cold.”
“It isn’t that. This is no new thing with her. She is a mouth-breather.”
“I’ll see that it’s corrected,” promised the mother.
“Only one thing can correct it,” said Dr. Strong gravely. “There’s a difficulty that must be removed.”
“You mean an operation? On that baby? Do you know that she isn’t five yet? And you want to cut her with a knife—”
“Steady, Myra,” came Mr. Clyde’s full, even speech. “Dr. Strong doesn’t want to do anything except what he considers necessary.”
“Necessary! Supposing she does breathe through her mouth! What excuse is that for torturing her—my baby!”
“I’ll answer that, Mrs. Clyde,” said the doctor, with patient politeness. Walking over to the window he threw it up and called, “Oh, Tootles! Twinkles! Honorable Miss Cherub, come up here. I’ve got something to show you.” And presently in came the child, dragging a huge and dilapidated doll.