“What can you expect? I love him too much, I can't resist him; you must
get used to it.”
Jean was delicate, rather. The doctor said that he was anaemic,
prescribed iron, rare meat and broth.
But the little fellow loved only cake and refused all other nourishment;
and the father, in despair, stuffed him with cream-puffs and chocolate
eclairs.
One evening, as they were sitting down to supper, Celeste brought on the
soup with an air of authority and an assurance which she did not usually
have. She took off the cover and, dipping the ladle into the dish, she
declared:
“Here is some broth such as I have never made; the young one will have
to take some this time.”