“I wish to see the doctor,” said I.

“This is Monday, sir,” the maid replied—­I couldn’t quite place her, but she seemed rather above her station and was stunningly beautiful.

“What of that?” I demanded, as fiercely as I could, considering how pretty the maid was.

“The doctor can only be seen on Tuesdays,” said she.  “It’s on the door.”

“But I’m sick,” I cried.  “Very sick, indeed.”

“No doubt,” she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders that I found very fetching.  “Else you would not have come.  But you are not so sick that you can’t wait until to-morrow, or if you are, you might as well die, because the doctor won’t take a case he can’t think over a week.”

“Nice arrangement, that,” said I, scornfully.  “It may do very well for immortals, but for a mortal it’s pretty poor business.”

The maid’s manner underwent an immediate change.

[Illustration:  “‘THEN YOU MUST DIE’”]

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, making me a courtesy.  “I did not know you were a mortal.  I presumed you were a minor god.  The doctor will see you at once.”

I was ushered into the consulting-room immediately—­in fact, too quickly.  I wanted to thank the pretty maid for taking me for an immortal.  There was no time for this, however, for in a moment AEsculapius himself appeared.

“You must pardon Alcestis,” he said, after the first greetings were over.  “She is new to the business and doesn’t know a god from a hole in the ground.  She presumed you were immortal and did not realize the emergency.”

“That’s all right, doctor,” said I, glad to learn who the entrancing person at the door was.  “I’ve called to see you because—­”

“Pray be silent,” the doctor interrupted, holding his hand up in admonition.  “Let me discover your symptoms for myself.  It is the surer method.  Physicians in your world are frequently led astray by placing too much reliance upon what their patients tell them.  I have devised a new system. Believe nothing the patient says. See?  If a man tells me he has a headache, I send him to a chiropodist.  If his ankle pains him, I send him to an oculist.  If he says his chest is oppressed, I have him treated for spinal meningitis; and an alleged pain in the back my assistants cure by placing a mustard plaster on the throat.”

“Then your medical principles are based on what, doctor?” I asked, somewhat amused.

“A simple motto which prevails among you mortals:  ’All men are liars’—­’Omnes homines mendaces sunt.’  It is safer than your accepted methods below.  A sick man is the last man in the universe to describe his symptoms accurately.  The mere fact that he is ill distorts his judgment.  Therefore, I never allow it.  If I can’t find out for myself what is the matter with a patient, I give up the case.”

“And the patient dies?” I suggested.

“Not if he is an immortal,” he replied, quietly.  “Come over here,” he added, indicating a spot near the window where there was a strong light.  I went, and AEsculapius, taking a pair of eye-glasses from a cabinet in one corner of his apartment, placed them on the bridge of his nose.