We went again upon the morrow, and Binney expressed himself as being
glad to see us.
"I dunno 'oo your soft-lookin' friend may be," said Mr. Binney, "but I
know 'oo you are, Doctor, an' you done me a power o' good, an' I'm
grateful to you. Gettin' on fine, I am."
"That's _right_," exclaimed the doctor, looking as if he believed it.
"Keeping off the drink, of course, as I advised you?"
"Keepin' orf tadpoles!" cried Mr. Binney, with disdain. "I've 'ad five
brandies auready this mornin', an' not you, nor the ole woman, nor the
King 'isself would stop me. I know the cure for _my_ complaint."
The next morning Dr. Brink paid his third and last visit to this
patient. The patient willed it so, having reconstructed the frame of
his mind.
"Look 'ere, me man," said Mr. Binney upon this occasion, "I'm grateful
for what you done for me, and so on. See? But I've 'ad enough of you.
See? I'm very much obliged to you, and all that; but I don't want you.
I'm better now. I'm all right now. _I_ don't want no blinkin' doctors.
See what I mean? You're a clever fellow, no doubt, and I quite agree,
and you 'ave my thanks. But you can 'op it. See?"
Dr. Brink accordingly hopped it. But that his treatment had not been
wholly useless was testified by Mrs. Binney, who, when calling in that
evening for some more dark brown, announced, with a sigh of
satisfaction, that "'is trembles" was as bad as ever. "It'll be another
week 'fore ever 'e can put them trousers on," she cried triumphantly.
That was a week ago. This very day has witnessed Mr. Binney's return to
public life--properly habited and full of dignity.
I have been watching him, as, with his finest and most benevolent air,
he bestowed a can of wholesome, grass-fed nourishment upon one of the
numerous Barnstein children, who live opposite.
His hands, I thought, showed signs of more than usual eagerness as he
hooked a trembling finger round the handle of the can. There was an
expression as of reverence upon his face, and he yielded the liquid into
Miss Barnstein's keeping with a hesitancy, as of one loth to part from
his treasure.
His lips moved, and I could almost have believed that he had breathed a
blessing--a Latin blessing. Then I heard him speak--in deep, impressive
tones he spake.
"Be careful with it, missy," he said. "If you spill some, what'll
mother say? Now do be careful!"
With that he returned to his little hand-cart and pushed it slowly up
the road, walking with a measured gait and uttering, in rich and
reverent tones, his exhortation:--
"Milk! Milk! _Milk!_"
*XXI*
*TWO PATIENTS*
My friend, Mrs. Isadore Muntz, has been very ill, poor girl.
She is always rather ill, of course; there would not otherwise be much
point in being married to so rich and elderly a man as Isadore. But the
illness which I now have to record was a real one--a horrid one. It
involved the use of a surgeon's knife. It involved the complete
collapse of Isadore, whose world-famous bill-brokery was carried on
without the stimulus of his presence for nearly fourteen days.
For more than seven days of that period, it is said, he kept to his
chamber, and cried without ceasing. And he admitted, between his sobs,
to my aunt Elizabeth, that Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's fee for the operation
had amounted to a hundred guineas, besides an additional charge of
twenty guineas for the anaesthetist.
But Mrs. Isadore--Constance she used to let me call her--is getting
slowly better. Because she used to let me call her Constance and
because--because I am sorry for her, I went to the "At Home," which was
held at West Hampstead, in order--I suppose--to celebrate the result of
Sir Marmaduke Wilkins's efforts.
Less than eight weeks having elapsed since the occasion of Sir
Marmaduke's skilful treatment, she was still forbidden to be very
active. So she lay on a sofa, embowered with blossoms, and we rustled
up and cried over her. Isadore, the faithful creature, stood fast by
her right hand. This was perhaps responsible for Constance's notable
depression.
It is also possible that she thought of all those low-necked gowns
hanging useless on their pegs upstairs.
"You don't mean to say _you've_ come!" Constance exclaimed when I took
her hand; "I thought you hated Hampstead."
"And so I do," replied the tactful guest. "But I heard a funny story
yesterday, and----"
"That's all right," she said. "I'm sick of funny stories. Tell me
something tragic. Haven't you fallen in love lately?"
"Yes," I said, "and I've bought another dog."
"Tell me about the dog," she said.
So I described the dog for nearly twenty minutes, much to the enragement
of many mourners, who were waiting for an audience. When the laws of
decency compelled me to retreat, she was so kind as to ask me to convey
a form of greeting to the new dog.
"I will come and see him one day," she said. "But they won't let me
move for weeks yet, and when they do I've got to go to Bournemouth and
be wheeled about in a bath-chair. Isn't it horrid?"
"It is," I admitted, and I turned away to meet the cod-fish eye and
collected expression of Sir Marmaduke Wilkins, M.R.C.S. That scientist
was eating an ice with relish.
* * * * *
You may wonder what connection I trace between this episode and the life
of Bovingdon Street. There is a connection; but it traced itself. I
left the Muntz's stately mansion feeling in need of distraction, and
that distraction I sought from Doctor Brink and James. And James was
full of news.
"I've begun my professional education," she said. "I administered
chloroform to a case last week. Fee sixpence. Fatty still owes it me."