gworth says he has read it all before, and that it is much too
conventional. We must rivet the attention of the public from the start,
he says. Certainly, his own is calculated to do so, for it seems to me
to be wild rubbish. The end of his first chapter is the only tolerable
point that he has made. A fraudulent old baronet is running race-horses
on the cross. His son, who is just coming of age, is an innocent youth.
The news of the great race of the year has just been received.

"Sir Robert tottered into the room with dry lips and a ghastly face.

"'My poor boy!' he cried. 'Prepare for the worst!'

"'Our horse has lost!' cried the young heir, springing from his chair.

"The old man threw himself in agony upon the rug. 'No, no!' he screamed.
'IT HAS WON!'"

Most of it, however, is poor stuff, and we are each agreed that the
other was never meant for a novelist.

So much for our domestic proceedings, and all these little details which
you say you like to hear of. Now I must tell you of the great big change
in my affairs, and how it came about.

I have told you about the strange, sulky behaviour of Cullingworth,
which has been deepening from day to day. Well, it seemed to reach a
climax this morning, and on our way to the rooms I could hardly get a
word out of him. The place was fairly crowded with patients, but my
own share was rather below the average. When I had finished I added a
chapter to my novel, and waited until he and his wife were ready for the
daily bag-carrying homewards.

It was half-past three before he had done. I heard him stamp out into
the passage, and a moment later he came banging into my room. I saw in
an instant that some sort of a crisis had come.

"Munro," he cried, "this practice is going to the devil!"

"Ah!" said I. "How's that?

"It's going to little pieces, Munro. I've been taking figures, and I
know what I am talking about. A month ago I was seeing six hundred
a week. Then I dropped to five hundred and eighty; then to
five-seventy-five; and now to five-sixty. What do you think of that?"

"To be honest, I don't think much of it," I answered. "The summer is
coming on. You are losing all your coughs and colds and sore throats.
Every practice must dwindle at this time of year."

"That's all very well," said he, pacing up and down the room, with his
hands thrust into his pockets, and his great shaggy eyebrows knotted
together. "You may put it down to that, but I think quite differen