``He said
there was nothing organically wrong.''
``He is an ass, and a criminal. He ruins throats.
He likes to cut, and he likes to spray. He sprays those
poisons that relieve colds and paralyze the throat and
cords. Americans sing? It is to laugh! They have
too many doctors; they take too many pills. Do you
know what your national emblem should be? A dollar-
sign--yes. But that for all nations. No, a pill--a
pill, I tell you. You take pills?''
``Now and then,'' said Mildred, laughing. ``I admit
I have several kinds always on hand.''
``You see!'' cried he triumphantly. ``No, it is not
mere art that America needs, but more sense about
eating--and to keep away from the doctors. People full
of pills, they cannot make poems and pictures, and write
operas and sing them. Throw away those pills, dear
young lady, I implore you.''
``Signor Moldini, I've come to ask you to help
me.''
Instantly the Italian cleared his face of its half-
humorous, half-querulous expression. In its place came
a grave and courteous eagerness to serve her that was a
pleasure, even if it was not altogether sincere.
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