e message awaiting me, and when Adolphus had delivered
it (amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement, premonitory of
fried plaice), I pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to Gunpowder
Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient, joyfully threading the now
familiar passages of Gough Square and Wine Office Court, and meditating
pleasantly on the curious literary flavour that pervades these
little-known regions. For the shade of the author of _Rasselas_ still
seems to haunt the scenes of his Titanic labours and his ponderous but
homely and temperate rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of books
and of the making of books; forms of type, trundled noisily on trollies
by ink-smeared boys, salute the wayfarer at odd corners; piles of
strawboard, rolls or bales of paper, drums of printing-ink or
roller-composition stand on the pavement outside dark entries; basement
windows give glimpses into Hadean caverns tenanted by legions of
printer's devils; and the very air is charged with the hum of press and
with odours of glue and paste and oil. The entire neighbourhood is given
up to the printer and binder; and even my patient turned out to be a
guillotine-knife grinder--a ferocious and revolutionary calling
strangely at variance with his harmless appearance and meek bearing.

I was in good time at my tryst, despite the hindrances of fried plaice
and invalid guillotinists; but, early as I was, Miss Bellingham was
already waiting in the garden--she had been filling a bowl with
flowers--ready to sally forth.

"It is quite like old times," she said, as we turned into Fetter Lane,
"to be going to the Museum together. It brings back the Tell el Amarna
tablets and all your kindness and unselfish labour. I suppose we shall
walk there to-day?"

"Certainly," I replied; "I am not going to share your society with the
common mortals who ride in omnibuses. That would be sheer, sinful waste.
Besides, it is more companionable to walk."

"Yes, it is; and the bustle of the streets makes one more appreciative
of the quiet of the Museum. What are we going to look at when we get
there?"

"You must decide that," I replied. "You know the collection much better
than I do."

"Well, now," she mused, "I wonder what you would like to see; or, in
other words, what I should like you to see. The old English pottery is
rather fascinating, especially the Fulham ware. I rather think I shall
take you to see that."

She reflected awhile, an