“No, but he wants to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes. When the doctor saw the nurse, he said, ‘Madame, it is impossible for me to continue to attend this child unless I have had this very day a conversation with the father.’ So I said ‘Very well,’ and he said he would come at once.”
George turned away, and put his hands to his forehead. “My poor little daughter!” he whispered to himself.
“Yes,” said the mother, her voice breaking, “she is, indeed, a poor little daughter!”
A silence fell; for what could words avail in such a situation? Hearing the door open, Madame Dupont started, for her nerves were all a-quiver with the strain she had been under. A servant came in and spoke to her, and she said to George, “It is the doctor. If you need me, I shall be in the next room.”
Her son stood trembling, as if he were waiting the approach of an executioner. The other came into the room without seeing him and he stood for a minute, clasping and unclasping his hands, almost overcome with emotion. Then he said, “Good-day, doctor.” As the man stared at him, surprised and puzzled, he added, “You don’t recognize me?”
The doctor looked again, more closely. George was expecting him to break out in rage; but instead his voice fell low. “You!” he exclaimed. “It is you!”
At last, in a voice of discouragement than of anger, he went on, “You got married, and you have a child! After all that I told you! You are a wretch!”
“Sir,” cried George, “let me explain to you!”