"Do you find business--slack?" asked my mother.

"Oh! one rubs along. But there's no Development--no growth. They just
come along here and buy pills when they want 'em--and a horseball or
such. They've got to be ill before there's a prescription. That sort
they are. You can't get 'em to launch out, you can't get 'em to take up
anything new. For instance, I've been trying lately--induce them to buy
their medicines in advance, and in larger quantities. But they won't
look for it! Then I tried to float a little notion of mine, sort of an
insurance scheme for colds; you pay so much a week, and when you've got
a cold you get a bottle of Cough Linctus so long as you can produce a
substantial sniff. See? But Lord! they've no capacity for ideas, they
don't catch on; no Jump about the place, no Life. Live!--they trickle,
and what one has to do here is to trickle too--Zzzz."

"Ah!" said my mother.

"It doesn't suit me," said my uncle. "I'm the cascading sort."

"George was that," said my mother after a pondering moment.

My aunt Susan took up the parable with an affectionate glance at her
husband.

"He's always trying to make his old business jump," she said. "Always
putting fresh cards in the window, or getting up to something. You'd
hardly believe. It makes ME jump sometimes."

"But it does no good," said my uncle.