On Monday a hard day's work awaited me. At Slater's Mews I found the poor
doctor, who had already been there some two hours, packing up the
literature, tying up forms, and occasionally turning to Short for
instruction or advice.

The latter, seated on a packing-case, was regaling himself on a bloater
and cheesecakes, having disposed of which he took up a flute and played
some snatches of music-hall melodies. He seemed quite unconcerned at what
took place around him, contenting himself with answering Armitage's
questions. Soon after I arrived on the scene Kosinski appeared. It was the
first time I had seen him since the memorable evening at Chiswick, and I
felt a little nervous in his presence, overcome by a half-guilty fear lest
he should think I was merely dallying, not working in true earnest. I was
conscious of my own sincerity of purpose, yet feared his mental verdict on
my actions, for I now realised that his uncompromising words and scathing
denunciation of dilettanteism had had much to do with my recent conduct;
more than all Armitage's enthusiastic propagandising, much as I liked,
and, indeed, admired the latter. Kosinski shook hands with Armitage and
Short. The latter had stepped forward and assumed an air of unwonted
activity, having pulled off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, and
there he stood hammering up a form and whistling "It ain't all Lavender"
--very appropriate verses, considering the surroundings. The Russian
merely recognised my presence with a slight bow, not discourteous, but
characterised by none of the doctor's encouraging benevolence; I, however,
felt more honoured than snubbed, and worked away with a will.

"Well, I must be going," said Armitage; "it is nearly ten, and at
half-past eleven I have an appointment at a patient's house. You will
stay, won't you, Kosinski, and help our comrades to move the plant?"