damnable contrivances which were ever invented. Whenever I see one I buy it and burn it. That is one reason why I happen to have so many rats. I think that the people who make those things ought to be devoured by locusts. I——"

"You also have the spirit of reform, then?" I ventured to suggest.

"Reform!" echoed James, with a bitter laugh. "Because one hates to see things tortured? I call it common decency. All of Fatty's friends have got some wonderful new name for being decent. One of Fatty's most particular friends is a rather awful man named Boag, and he is a public accountant, and he wears spats, and he calls himself a Conative Meliorist; and if you ask him why, he says it is because he believes in making people happy. 'Conative Meliorist'! Think of it! Sounds so expensive, doesn't it? He pronounces his name in two jerks—Bo—ag, and it always reminds me of Asheg, Mesheg, and Abednedgo.... He looks exactly like them, too! 'Conative Meliorist'! It is much easier to call yourself just James."

"Why do you call yourself 'James,' by the way?"

"Let us stick to the point," responded James. "It is so like a man to dodge your arguments when he can't upset them. What was the point?"

"Conative Meliorism," I suggested.

"That was merely a passing reference. There was something else which reminded me of Mr. Boag. Something which reminded me of something which reminded me of something which remind—I remember now. We were talking of white rats. You were pretending not to hate them. You were trying to deceive me. Your pretendings don't take me in the leastest bit, so you may just as well chuck them up. Be honest. Be a man. Stand up like an English gentleman. Say what you feel about them. Do not fear to shock my virgin ears because——"

"How old are you, James?" I hoped that my simple, honest, obvious wonder would disarm the question of its point.

The lady gazed upon me with an air of bland surprise. "That is a question," she answered, with great gravity, "which I never discuss. It isn't fair to Fatty. Do sit down. Was it sugar and no milk, you said; or milk and no sugar? And will you have hysterics if Sunshine joins the circle? He always breakfasts with his mother. Oh, de minna, tinna, tooney Sunshine, den."

Sunshine was a rat—the whitest and roundest and fattest of them all.

*      *      *      *      *

I, nevertheless, contrived to breakfast well. Sunshine's mistress was thoughtful enough to curtail the radius of that minna, tinna, tooney animal's accustomed beat: with the result that I was able to keep my seat. And his mistress stayed him with dainties and prattled cheerfully upon a variety of strange subjects. It was no good waiting breakfast for Fatty, she explained, because Fatty's "call" was a "midder."

"And what in heaven's name," I demanded, "may a 'midder' be?"

"That," explained James, "is what Fatty calls an 'obstetric term.' When people have babies, you know. Do you know what 'B.B.A.' means?"

I didn't.

"That's another trade expression. It stands for 'Born Before Arrival,' and it's what you always pray for, because it saves a lot of time, and they have to pay you just the same. Our fee is half a guinea, and you can pay it by instalments if you like. But if it is your first baby we charge a guinea, because your husband is a lot more trouble to us, and he is not always sober. And whatever the fee, we do our very best for you, and pride ourselves on our results; but as we get about seven 'midders' every day, we are not able to make so many compliments as we did in Norfolk.... Fatty calls it his Automatic Delivery System."

The girl, as she spoke, looked very "nice" and English: she was feeding Sunshine from a fork. I began to wonder whether it was actually possible that she did not realise the horrible impropriety of her conversation. As an Englishman, I knew my duty. That duty was to represent to her in suitable terms that her conduct was abandoned and impure. But the religious duty of causing maidens to blush is one which is best performed by the Righteous, who perform it so well and often.... I concealed my horror.

And the maiden prattled on. "Some of them are fearfully grateful. Do you see that old stuffed owl in the dusty case, there? That's a present—to me. It only came yesterday, and it's a token of gratitude from a Jewish lady in the fish trade. This is her sixth, and the first five were all girls. She used to deal with our opposition—Dr. McWhite—but when the fifth female came along they changed over to Fatty, and this stuffed owl is what he calls a tribute to professional ability. And there's Fatty's key in the door. Seize his bacon, will you—it's in the fender."

I was rather annoyed with Dr. Brink for returning just then. I had mapped out a series of leading questions designed to elicit James's age and identity.

But when the little hungry man came in, I felt that these questions were unimportant and could wait. It was interesting enough to help that busy scientist to mustard, and to hear him curse the Liberal Government with his mouth full of bacon, and to watch the quiet motherliness of James.

"Regular multitude in the waiting-room," announced the doctor, as he gulped his coffee. "Got to get back there quick. You'd better pop down with me, youngster, and get a squint at it all."

"You sit on the gas-stove in the kitchen," explained James. "There's a window just above it which gives on to the consulting-room, and it's painted on the kitchen side, and I've scratched a little squint-hole in the paint.... I often go down there when the drunks come in—the funny drunks, I mean. Sometimes they are not funny. And Mr. Boag, the Conative Meliorist, sits there by the hour. He calls it 'supping with misery.'"

"You'll spend the day with us, I suppose?" suggested the little doctor. And, as it was Saturday, and therefore a holiday in my trade, I supposed that I would.

And then they introduced me to the gas-stove.

IV

SIXPENCES

I sat on the gas-stove, with James beside me, and we applied our eyes in turn to the squint-hole and beheld the Doctor earning sixpences.

Item: A young gentleman with the hiccoughs. Was feeling suicidal. How was his appetite? Shocking, shocking! Digestion in good order? On the contrary, it was shocking bad. What sort of nights? Shocking! Spirits low? Shocking low. Did his head ache? Shockingly. Food taste dull? Absolutely shocking. Young gentleman receives some advice on the subject of alcoholic excess and a bottle of water, fortified by harmless colouring matter. Young gentleman departs.

Item: Tired woman with baby in convulsions. Baby's dietary discussed. Woman indignant. "Why," she declares, "'e 'as the very same