Ten pounds he spent on embossed stationery.
Forty pounds he spent on postage-stamps.
For the next three months no journal was complete without a letter from 999 Harley Street, signed "Gordon Venables," in which the iniquity of his treatment by the British Medical Council was dwelt upon with the fervour of a man who knew his subject thoroughly; no such letter was complete without a side-reference to anthro-philomelitis (as found, happily, in earth-worms) and the anthro-philomelitis treatment (as recommended by peers). Six months previously the name of Venables had been utterly unknown to the man in the street. In three months' time it was better known even than ——'s, the well-known ——.
One-half of London said he was an infamous quack.
The other half of London said he was a martyred genius.
Both halves agreed that, after all, one might as well try this new what-you-may-call-it treatment, just to see if there was anything in it, don't you know.
It was only last week that Mr. Venables made an excellent speech against the super-tax.