“In a year from now, the danger will be more advanced. There is not the faintest chance of correction of the fault without an operation.”
“I can’t help it! I can’t stand the thought of it, now,” said Mrs. Clyde brokenly. “You should see her, poor baby, as she looks now, asleep on the lounge in the library, and even you, Doctor” (the doctor smiled a little awry at that), “couldn’t bear to think of the blood and the pain.” She was silent, shuddering.
“My dear Mrs. Clyde, the blood will be no more than a nosebleed, and the pain won’t amount to much, thanks to anaesthesia. Let me see.” He stepped to the door and, opening it softly, looked in, then beckoned to the others to join him.
The child lay asleep on her side, one cupped pink hand hanging, the other back of her head. Her jaw had dropped and the corner of the mouth had slackened down in an unnatural droop. The breath hissed a little between the soft lips. Dr. Strong closed the door again.
“Well?” he said, and there was a suggestion of the sternness of judgment in the monosyllable.
“I am her mother.” Mrs. Clyde faced him, a spot of color in each cheek. “A mother is a better judge of her children than any doctor can be!”
“You think so?” said Dr. Strong deliberately. “Then I must set you right. Do you recall sending Charley away from the table for clumsiness, two days ago?”
“Why, yes.” Mrs. Clyde’s expressive eyes widened. “He overturned his glass, after my warning him.”
“And once last week for the same thing?”
“Yes, but what—”