number of imaginary ones as well. Regularly four times a day he would
waddle round the ward in his dingy old dressing-gown, discussing
symptoms with every cot. In exchange for your helping of pudding he
would take your temperature and let you know the answer, and for
a bunch of grapes he would tell you the probable course of your
complaint and the odds against complete recovery. No one seemed to
interfere with him. You see, Burnett was no longer a case; he was an
institution.

He spent a long time by Ellis's bedside. I suspect Ellis wasn't
feeling much like pudding at the moment. I couldn't hear very well
what was going on, but Ellis was chattering as only Ellis can, and the
comfortable Burnett was apparently soothing him with an occasional
"All right, old man. I'll see what I can do for you."

At length the grapes were all consumed and the huge form of Burnett
loomed above me.

"Why, Mr. L----," said the soothing voice, "I don't want to alarm you,
but really--"

"Really what?" I cried, starting up in bed at the gravity of his tone.

"Well, you know--your colour; I perhaps--"

He fumbled in the folds of his voluminous gown and produced a small
metal mirror. Then he seemed to change his mind and put it back again.

"I'd better not," he said softly to himself, and then louder to me,
"Have you got a wife--or perhaps a mother?"