'I think it is,' he said. 'I think it's all right.'

'I'd rather Doctor Wing came again--I don't feel satisfied.'

'Aren't you trying to imagine it worse than it really is?'

'You would say so, of course. But I shall write a post-card to Doctor
Wing now.'

The doctor came next day. He examined the knee. Yes, there was
inflammation. Yes, there _might_ be a little septic poisoning--there
might. There might. Was the child feverish?

So a fortnight passed by, and the child _was_ feverish, and the knee was
more inflamed and grew worse and was painful, painful. She cried in the
night, and her mother had to sit up with her. Egbert still insisted it
was nothing, really--it would pass. But in his heart he was anxious.

Winifred wrote again to her father. On Saturday the elderly man appeared.
And no sooner did Winifred see the thick, rather short figure in its grey
suit than a great yearning came over her.

'Father, I'm not satisfied with Joyce. I'm not satisfied with Doctor
Wing.'

'Well, Winnie, dear, if you're not satisfied we must have further advice,
that is all.'

The sturdy, powerful, elderly man went upstairs, his voice sounding
rather grating through the house, as if it cut upon the tense atmosphere.