George nodded his assent, and Madame Dupont returned to the nurse. “You know,” she said, “that our child is a little sick?”
The other looked at her in surprise. “Why no, ma’am!”
“Yes,” said the grandmother.
“But, ma’am, I have taken the best of care of her; I have always kept her proper.”
“I am not saying anything to the contrary,” said Madame Dupont, “but the child is sick, the doctors have said it.”
The nurse was not to be persuaded; she thought they were getting ready to scold her. “Humph,” she said, “that’s a fine thing—the doctors! If they couldn’t always find something wrong you’d say they didn’t know their business.”
“But our doctor is a great doctor; and you have seen yourself that our child has some little pimples.”
“Ah, ma’am,” said the nurse, “that’s the heat—it’s nothing but the heat of the blood breaking out. You don’t need to bother yourself; I tell you it’s only the child’s blood. It’s not my fault; I swear to you that she had not lacked anything, and that I have always kept her proper.”
“I am not reproaching you—”
“What is there to reproach me for? Oh, what bad luck! She’s tiny—the little one—she’s a bit feeble; but Lord save us, she’s a city child! And she’s getting along all right, I tell you.”