THE PATIENTS' LIBRARY.
Though a West-End physician of repute, he must, I think, have had a course of American training, if rapidity of action be any indication thereof.
Scarcely had the maid ushered me into his study and I had taken a seat than he came forward brusquely, looked at me with the glowering eye of the Second Murderer, grasped a large piece of me in the region of the fourth rib and barked, "You're too fat."
Having been carefully bred I refrained from retaliation. I did not tell him that his legs were out of drawing and that he had a frightfully vicious nose. But before I had time to explain my business he had started on a series of explosive directions: "Eat proper food. Plenty of open air. Exercise morning, noon and night and in between. Use the Muldow system. You need a tonic."
He turned to his table and was, I suppose, about to draw a cheque for me on the local chemist's when I decided to say my little piece.
"Excuse me, Sir," said I mildly, "I am not a patient."
The combination fountain-pen and thermometer almost fell from his hand.
"I am," said I, "the sole proprietor and sole representative of the Physicians' Supply Association. I gave your maid my card. I have called with a thrilling offer of magazines for your waiting-room."
"What dates?" said he, a gleam of interest in his dark eye.
"All pre-war," said I proudly; "none of them are later than 1900 and some go back to 1880."
"Not b.c.?" said he, with a look in which hope and disbelief were mingled.
"No," said I. "All are a.d.; but they include two Reports of Missions to Deep Sea Fishermen in 1885—very rare. I'm sure they would match splendidly the Proceedings of the Royal Commission on Aniline Dyes which you have in the waiting-room."
"No," said he firmly. "I have one of the most important practices in Harley Street. I likewise possess one of the finest collections of old magazines in the profession. That blue-book on Aniline Dyes is barely fifty years old. It was left me by my father, and I retain it simply through affection for him in spite of its modernity. But the rest go back to the Crimean vintage and earlier. When you have something really old, come to me. But"—and he threw in a winning smile in his best bedside manner—"not till then."
I am now in search of a young practitioner who is merely starting a collection.
Scene.—A Flower Show: Garden Ornament Section.
Mother. "I don't care for that little figure. He's too eighteenth-century for my taste."
Critical Little Girl (who has lately taken part in tableaux-vivants). "How can you tell what century he is, Mother? He's got no clothes on."