But Rosa told him that would never do; a physician must be in the fashionable part of the town.

“Eventually,” said Christopher; “but surely at first starting—­and you know they say little boats should not go too far from shore.”

Then Rosa repeated all her friend’s arguments, and seemed so unhappy at the idea of not living near her, that Staines, who had not yet said the hard word “no” to her, gave in; consoling his prudence with the reflection that, after all, Mr. Cole could put many a guinea in his way, for Mr. Cole was middle-aged,—­though his wife was young,—­and had really a very large practice.

So next day, the newly-wedded pair called on a house-agent in Mayfair, and his son and partner went with them to several places.  The rents of houses equal to that in Harewood Square were three hundred pounds a year at least, and a premium to boot.

Christopher told him these were quite beyond the mark.  “Very well,” said the agent.  “Then I’ll show you a Bijou.”

Rosa clapped her hands.  “That is the thing for us.  We don’t want a large house, only a beautiful one, and in Mayfair.”

“Then the Bijou will be sure to suit you.”

He took them to the Bijou.

The Bijou had a small dining-room with one very large window in two sheets of plate glass, and a projecting balcony full of flowers; a still smaller library, which opened on a square yard enclosed.  Here were a great many pots, with flowers dead or dying from neglect.  On the first floor a fair-sized drawing-room, and a tiny one at the back:  on the second floor, one good bedroom, and a dressing-room, or little bedroom:  three garrets above.

Rosa was in ecstasies.  “It is a nest,” said she.

“It is a bank-note,” said the agent, stimulating equal enthusiasm, after his fashion.  “You can always sell the lease again for more money.”

Christopher kept cool.  “I don’t want a house to sell, but to live in, and do my business; I am a physician:  now the drawing-room is built over the entrance to a mews; the back rooms all look into a mews:  we shall have the eternal noise and smell of a mews.  My wife’s rest will be broken by the carriages rolling in and out.  The hall is fearfully small and stuffy.  The rent is abominably high; and what is the premium for, I wonder?”

“Always a premium in Mayfair, sir.  A lease is property here:  the gentleman is not acquainted with this part, madam.”

“Oh, yes, he is,” said Rosa, as boldly as a six years’ wife:  “he knows everything.”

“Then he knows that a house of this kind at a hundred and thirty pounds a year in Mayfair is a bank-note.”

Staines turned to Rosa.  “The poor patients, where am I to receive them?”

“In the stable,” suggested the house agent.

“Oh!” said Rosa, shocked.

“Well, then, the coach-house.  Why, there’s plenty of room for a brougham, and one horse, and fifty poor patients at a time:  beggars musn’t be choosers; if you give them physic gratis, that is enough:  you ain’t bound to find ’em a palace to sit down in, and hot coffee and rump steaks all round, doctor.”