"Would--you--like--to sit in my lap?" she queried conscientiously.

Insolent with astonishment the Little Girl parried the question. "Why in
blazes--should I want to sit in your lap?" she quizzed harshly. Every
accent of her voice, every remotest intonation, was like the Senior
Surgeon's at his worst. The suddenly forked eyebrow, the snarling twitch
of the upper lip, turned the whole delicate little face into a grotesque
but desperately unconscious caricature of the grim-jawed father.

As though the father himself had snubbed her for some unimaginable
familiarity the White Linen Nurse winced back in hopeless confusion.
Just for sheer shock, short-circuited with fatigue, a big tear rolled
slowly down one pink cheek.

Instantly to the edge of her seat the Little Girl jerked herself
forward. "Don't cry, Pretty!" she whispered. "Don't cry! It's my legs.
I've got fat iron braces on my legs. And people don't like to hold me!"

Half the professional smile came flashing back to the White Linen
Nurse's mouth.

"Oh, I just adore holding people with iron braces on their legs," she
affirmed, and, leaning over the back of the seat, proceeded with
absolutely perfect mechanical tenderness to gather the poor, puny,
surprised little body into her own strong, shapely arms. Then dutifully
snuggling her shoulder to meet the stubborn little shoulder that refused
to snuggle, to it, and dutifully easing her knees to suit the stubborn
little knees that refused to be eased, she settled down resignedly in
her seat again to await the return of the Senior Surgeon. "There! There!
There!" she began quite instinctively to croon and pat.