“Hair falling out at all?” he asked, casually.
“Why refer to a woman’s one eternal woe?”
“Oh, nothing,” and he smiled a little stiffly; “the throat is sore, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Let me look. Turn to the light, please. Open the mouth wide, and say ‘ah.’ Hum, yes, rather inflamed,” and Dr. Little, after moving his head from side to side, like a man peering down the bowl of a pipe, drew back from the bed, his eyes fixed momentarily on Betty Steel’s face with a peculiarly intent stare.
“I’ll send you up a gargle for the throat.”
“Thanks. I shall be all right for Saturday, I suppose?”
“I hope so.”
“It is the last rehearsal. I must not miss it.”
“Have you heard from Dr. Steel to-day?”