“They do?” said Pelleas helplessly.
“And they use two separate bottles,” I recalled anxiously. “And they—”
Pelleas wrinkled his eyes at the corners.
“Fudge!” he said.
O, I loved Pelleas for that “Fudge!” Not that I do not believe in every improvement in the world. I do. And Pelleas holds the most advanced doctrines. But now and then I do love a “Fudge!”
“Would you dare give him this warm milk?” I asked him bravely.
“I certainly would dare,” Pelleas answered clearly; “we would take the baby to ride in an automobile, would we not? and as for danger—”
“But, Pelleas,” I hesitated, “I don’t like to think we’re behind the times, undermining the progress of Society and Science and—”
By then the displeasure of the baby was like that of a young god, neglected of Hebe. Pelleas handed me the bottle.
“I am the last not to sympathize with these details,” he said gravely, “but it’s hungry, Etarre. Feed it. The situation seems to require something more than a boiled bottle.”