Desert Air

On an evening of last summer I was dining in London at the Carlton with two men. One of them was an excellent type of young England, strong, healthy, athletic, and straightforward. The other was a clever London doctor who was building up a great practice in the West End. At dessert the conversation turned upon a then recent tragedy in which a great reputation had gone down, and young England spoke rather contemptuously of the victim, with the superior surprise human beings generally express about the sin which does not happen to be theirs.
“I can’t understand it!” was his conclusion. “It’s beyond me.”
“Climate,” said the doctor quietly.
“What?”
“Climate. Air.”
Young England looked inexpressively astonished.
“But hang it all!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say change of air means change of nature?”
“Not to everyone. Not to you, perhaps. Have you travelled much?”
“Well, I’ve been to Paris for the Grand Prix, and to Monte——”
“For the gambling. That’s hardly travelling. Now, I’ve studied this subject a little, quietly in Harley Street. I’m no traveller myself, but I have dozens of patients who are. And I’m convinced that the modern facilities for travel, besides giving an infinity of pleasure, bring about innumerable tragedies.”
He turned to me.
“You go abroad a great deal. What do you say?”