etty, who called now and then. For the first time in my life I took
refuge in my invalidity, whereby I earned the commendation of Cliffe.
Betty sent me flowers. Mrs. Boyce sent me grapes and an infallible
prescription for heart attacks which, owing to the hopeless mess she
had made in trying to copy the wriggles indicating the quantities of
the various drugs, was of no practical use. Phyllis Gedge sent me a few
bunches of violets with a shy little note. Lady Fenimore wrote me an
affectionate letter bidding me farewell. They were going to Bude in
Cornwall, Anthony having put himself under Dr. Cliffe's orders like a
wonderful lamb. When she came back, she hoped that her two sick men
would be restored to health and able to look more favourably upon her
projected dinner party. Marigold also brought into my bedroom a
precious old Waterford claret jug which I had loved and secretly
coveted for twenty years, with a card attached bearing the inscription
"With love from Anthony." That was his dumb, British way of informing
me that he was taking my advice.

When my self-respect would allow me no longer to remain in bed, I got
up; but I still shrank from publishing the news of my recovery, in
which reluctance I met with the hearty encouragement both of Cliffe and
Marigold. The doctor then informed me that my attack of illness had
been very much more serious than I realised, and that unless I made up
my mind to lead the most unruffled of cabbage-like existences, he would
not answer for what might befall me. If he could have his way, he would
carry me off and put me into solitary confinement for a couple of
months on a sunny island, where I should hold no communication with the
outside world. Marigold heard this announcement with smug satisfaction.
Nothing would please him more than to play gaoler over me.

At last, one morning, I said to him: "I'm not going to submit to
tyranny any longer. I resume my normal life. I'm at home to anybody who
calls. I'm at home to the devil himself."

"Very good, sir," said Marigold.

An hour or two afterwards the door was thrown open and there stood on
the threshold the most amazing apparition that ever sought admittance
into a gentleman's library; an apparition, however, very familiar
during these days to English eyes. From the shapeless Tam-o'-Shanter to
the huge boots it was caked in mud. Over a filthy sheepskin were slung
all kinds of paraphernalia, covered with dirty canvas which made it
lo