doctors. Mr. Wyman is a
chatterbox and knows nothing. Dr. Snell is Mr. Wyman's echo. Christopher
is a genius, and they are always full of crotchets. A pretty doctor!
Gone away, and not prescribed for me!"

Mr. Lusignan admitted it was odd. "But, after all," said he, "if
medicine does you no good?"

"Ah! but any medicine HE had prescribed would have done me good, and
that makes it all the unkinder."

"If you think so highly of his skill, why not take his advice? It can do
no harm."

"No harm? Why, if I was to leave them off I should catch a dreadful
cold; and that would be sure to settle on my chest, and carry me off,
in my present delicate state. Besides, it is so unfeminine not to wear
them."

This staggered Mr. Lusignan, and he was afraid to press the point; but
what Staines had said fermented in his mind.

Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman continued their visits and their prescriptions.

The patient got a little worse.

Mr. Lusignan hoped Christopher would call again, but he did not.

When Dr. Staines had satisfied himself that the disorder was easily
curable, then wounded pride found an entrance even into his loving
heart. That two strangers should have been consulted before him! He was
only sent for because they could not cure her.

As he seemed in no hurry to repeat his visit, Mr. Lusignan called on
him, and said, politely, he had hoped to receive another call ere this.
"Personally," said he, "I was much struck with your observations; but my
daughter is afraid she will catch cold if she leaves off her corset, and
that, you know, might be very serious."

Dr. Staines groaned, and, when he had groaned, he lectured. "Female
patients are wonderfully monotonous in this matter; they have a
programme of evasions; and whether the patient is a lady or a housemaid,
she seldom varies from that programme. You find her breathing life's air
with half a bellows, and you tell her so. 'Oh, no,' says she; and does
the gigantic feat of contraction we witnessed that evening at your
house. But, on inquiry, you learn there is a raw red line ploughed
in her flesh by the cruel stays. 'What is that?' you ask, and flatter
yourself you have pinned her. Not a bit. 'That was the last pair. I
changed them, because they hurt me.' Driven out of that by proofs of
recent laceration, they say, 'If I leave them off I should catch my
death of cold,' which is equivalent to saying there is no flannel in the
shops, no common sense nor needles at home