Matthewman was talking of going to Europe, and of course she and
Eleanor would have to accompany her. Eleanor, she said, had ordered two
new gowns and had brightened up wonderfully. "Only yesterday she told me
she wished that silly doctor would hurry up and come--and that, you
know, from Eleanor is almost a declaration!"

Some of my best friends happened to be in the club. It occurred to me
that poor Nevill was diabetic, and that Charley Crossman had been boring
everybody about his gout. I buttonholed them both, and laid my
unfortunate predicament before them. I said I'd pay all the expenses. In
fact, the more they could make it cost the better I'd be pleased.

"What," roared Nevill, "put myself in the hands of a young fool so that
he may fill his empty pockets with your money! Where do _I_ come in?
Good heavens, Westoby, you're crazy! Think what would happen to me if it
came to Doctor Saltworthy's ears? He'd never have anything more to do
with me!"

Charley Crossman was equally rebellious and unreasonable.

"I guess you've never had the gout," he said grimly.

"But Charley, old man," I pleaded, "all that you'd have to do would be
to let him _talk_ to you. I don't ask you to suffer for it. Just
pay--that's all--pay my money!"

"I'm awfully easily talked into things," said Charley. (There was never
such a mule on the Produce Exchange.) "He'd be saying, 'Take this'--and
I'm the kind of blankety-blank fool that would take it!"

Then I did a mean thing. I reminded Crossman of having backed some bills
of his--big bills, too--at a time when it was touch and go whether he'd
manage to keep his head above water.

"Westoby," he replied, "don't think that time has lessened my sense of
that obligation. I'd cut off my right hand to do you a good turn. But
for heaven's sake, don't ask me to monkey with my gout!"

The best I could get out of him was the promise of an anemic
servant-girl. Nevill generously threw in a groom with varicose veins.
Small contributions, but thankfully received.

"Now, what you do," said Nevill, "is to go round right off and interview
Bishop Jordan. He has sick people to burn!"

But I said Jones would get on to it if I deluged him with the misery of
the slums.

"That's just where the bishop comes in," said Nevill. "There isn't a man
more in touch with the saddest kind of poverty in New York--the decent,
clean, shrinking poverty that hides away from all the dead-head coffee
and doughnuts. If I w