say at the very sight of me; and
in their womanly unselfishness their sympathy was all for me, for the
shock I had suffered, and the disturbance of my household. I found
myself turned from the consoler into the consoled. For an hour or more
we talked it over, I explaining what I hope needed no explanation, that
as the poor boy could not tell me his symptoms it was hard for me to
know how immediate was his danger. There can be no doubt that the fall
of temperature and the quietness which both Porter and I had looked upon
as a hopeful sign, were really the beginning to the end.

Mrs. La Force asked me to see to everything, the formalities, register,
and funeral. It was on a Wednesday, and we thought it best that the
burial should be on the Friday. Back I hurried, therefore, not
knowing what to do first, and found old Whitehall waiting for me in my
consulting room, looking very jaunty with a camelia in his button-hole.
Not an organ in its right place, and a camelia in his button-hole!

Between ourselves, I was sorry to see him, for I was in no humour for
his company; but he had heard all about it from Miss Williams, and had
come to stop. Only then did I fully realise how much of the kindly,
delicate-minded gentleman remained behind that veil of profanity and
obscenity which he so often held before him.

"I'll trot along with you, Dr. Munro, sir. A man's none the worse for a
companion at such times. I'll not open my mouth unless you wish it, sir;
but I am an idle man, and would take it as a kindness if you would let
me come round with you."

Round he came, and very helpful he was. He seemed to know all about the
procedure--"Buried two wives, Dr. Munro, sir!" I signed the certificate
myself, conveyed it to the registrar, got the order for burial, took
it round to the parish clerk, arranged an hour, then off to the
undertaker's, and back to my practice. It was a kind of nightmare
morning to look back upon, relieved only by the figure of my old
Bohemian, with his pea jacket, his black thorn, his puffy, crinkly face,
and his camelia.

To make a long story short, then, the funeral came off as arranged,
General Wainwright, Whitehall, and I being the sole mourners. The
captain had never seen poor Fred in the flesh, but he "liked to be in at
the finish, sir," and so he gave me his company. It was at eight in the
morning, and it was ten before we found ourselves at Oakley Villa. A
burly man with bushy whiskers was waiting for