“Doctor,—it is about my Elsie;—she hasn’t a particle of color, and she complains of feeling languid all the time—”
“No wonder!—What do you expect?”—it was the Doctor’s harshest tone. “She is loaded up with flesh,—she doesn’t exercise,—you stuff her. Send her out with her hoop,—make her drink water,—stop stuffing her. What she, wants is thinning out.”
“Elsie!—Why, Doctor, the child eats nothing,—I have to tempt her all the time;—and when she goes out she complains of feeling tired.”
“Let her complain,—and let her get tired;—it will do her good. Don’t feed her in betweentimes,—and when you do feed her, give her meat—something that will make red blood,—not slops, nor sweets, nor dough. There’s nothing in the world the matter with her.” He lifted his hat and strode on up the stairs.
Maternity, grieved and outraged, stared after him, speechless, then turned for sympathy in the nearest feminine eye.
“Really, dear,—I think that was almost vulgar,—as well as unkind,” murmured the other mother at her side.
“Vulgar! Unkind! Well, it is the last time he will have the opportunity to insult me! The idea! Elsie!—But it’s not the first time I have thought of changing physicians!” (This was true,—but she never did; the solid Elsie was her only one.) “And such desperate haste;—he must have a most critical case!” She cast an indignant glance at the building, as if to make it an accessory to the fact, and turning a kindling and interrogative glance upon her companion, encountered one of profound and scintillating significance. For a moment they contemplated their discovery breathlessly in each other’s eyes.
“Did you ever!” exclaimed number one at last. “Oh, of course I had heard things,—but I will do myself the justice to say I never believed a word of it before! This, of course, makes it plain enough;—this explains all!”
The two—good women, but wounded withal—coruscated subtle knowledge all down the street.
Meantime the Doctor climbed the stairs. He was perfectly conscious that he had been, in fact, both unkind and rude, even though his mood did not incline him to take measure of the extent of his delinquency. He knew equally that he should presently have to write a note of apology—and that it would not do an atom of good, Tant pis. He rang at the door of the daffodil-room, and it was opened by the tall girl whose eyes had hurt him that morning. They did not hurt him now, but enveloped him with a keen and soft regard that left no question unanswered. In another moment she had put out a firm hand and drawn him over the threshold in its clasp.