"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that as a curative measure?"

"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as
an antidote to mental excitement."

She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"

"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very
helpful."

"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People in
our position are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still they
don't seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come
unsought. But, of course, you can't enter into that."

"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope
that your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."

She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the street
door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my
_congé_.

Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little
street looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the
old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made