Murchison climbed the stairs to the front bedroom, a room liberally decorated with cheap china and colored texts. The patient, a little girl, christened Pretoria by her patriotic parents, lay on the bed beneath the window. The satiny whiteness of the child’s skin contrasted with the cherry-pink night-gown that she wore. It had been a case of diphtheria, a case that would probably have ended in disaster before the days of serum. Murchison had sat up half one night, doubtful whether he would not have to tracheotomize the child.
“Hallo, Babs, how’s that naughty throat?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and chatted boyishly to Pretoria, whose shy eyes surveyed him with a species of delighted adoration. The hero worship that children give to men is pathetic in its ideal trustfulness.
“I’m better, thank you, sir.”
“That’s right; you are beginning to know all about it, eh? Tongue fine and red. She’ll be a talker, Mrs. Bains. Taking her milk well, yes. Keep her lying down.”
Mrs. Bains’s big, red hands were fidgeting under her white apron.
“Begging your pardon, doctor, but the child’s been a-bothering me since you called last, to know whether she mayn’t give you some flowers.”
Mrs. Bains reached across the bed to where a cheap mug on the window-sill held a posy of pink daisies.
“They’re just common things,” said the sweep’s wife, with an apologetic smile.
The child’s hand went out, and there was a slight quivering of the bloodless lips.