that consolation, thinly disguised, to the family. [Lulled by the cadences of his own voice, he becomes drowsier and drowsier].  The fact that they spend money so extravagantly on medical attendance really would not justify me in wasting my talents—­such as they are—­in keeping them alive.  After all, if my fees are high, I have to spend heavily.  My own tastes are simple:  a camp bed, a couple of rooms, a crust, a bottle of wine; and I am happy and contented.  My wife’s tastes are perhaps more luxurious; but even she deplores an expenditure the sole object of which is to maintain the state my patients require from their medical attendant.  The—­er—­er—­er—­ [suddenly waking up] I have lost the thread of these remarks.  What was I talking about, Ridgeon?

Ridgeon.  About Dubedat.

B. B. Ah yes.  Precisely.  Thank you.  Dubedat, of course.  Well, what is our friend Dubedat?  A vicious and ignorant young man with a talent for drawing.

Louis.  Thank you.  Dont mind me.

B. B. But then, what are many of my patients?  Vicious and ignorant young men without a talent for anything.  If I were to stop to argue about their merits I should have to give up three-quarters of my practice.  Therefore I have made it a rule not so to argue.  Now, as an honorable man, having made that rule as to paying patients, can I make an exception as to a patient who, far from being a paying patient, may more fitly be described as a borrowing patient?  No.  I say No.  Mr Dubedat:  your moral character is nothing to me.  I look at you from a purely scientific point of view.  To me you are simply a field of battle in which an invading army of tubercle bacilli struggles with a patriotic force of phagocytes.  Having made a promise to your wife, which my principles will not allow me to break, to stimulate those phagocytes, I will stimulate them.  And I take no further responsibility. [He digs himself back in his seat exhausted].

Sir Patrick.  Well, Mr Dubedat, as Sir Ralph has very kindly offered to take charge of your case, and as the two minutes I promised you are up, I must ask you to excuse me. [He rises].

Louis.  Oh, certainly.  Ive quite done with you. [Rising and holding up the sketch block] There!  While youve been talking, Ive been doing.  What is there left of your moralizing?  Only a little carbonic acid gas which makes the room unhealthy.  What is there left of my work?  That.  Look at it [Ridgeon rises to look at it].

Sir Patrick [who has come down to him from the throne] You young rascal, was it drawing me you were?

Louis.  Of course.  What else?

Sir Patrick [takes the drawing from him and grunts approvingly]
Thats rather good.  Dont you think so, Lolly?

Ridgeon.  Yes.  So good that I should like to have it.

Sir Patrick.  Thank you; but I should like to have it myself. 
What d’ye think, Walpole?