"For the same reason which causes you to despise them," explained the doctor.
"But," protested Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, "I love the dear things! They are so unfortunate."
"I believe," declared the doctor, "that our feeling is identical; but, even to oblige a lady, I cannot call it love.
"When," he continued, "a large number of stout men are pleased to starve and shiver for no other reason than that I desire a trout-stream, I consider them to be worthy neither of love nor pity. I consider them to deserve what may be termed a helping foot, and when they have paid for my trout-stream I shall jolly well see that they get it."
Said the Hon. Mrs. Strudwicke-Moses, as she rose to her feet—
"I must confess, Doctor, that your bitterness surprises me. I can't think how anybody could feel angry with the poor dear things. For my part," she added, arranging her furs, "I love them. They are so unfortunate!"
XXXIX
ON A DEAD POLICEMAN
A small blue document reached the doctor recently. I don't remember exactly what words it contained; but there were references to God and the King and certain commands and threats thereto pertaining. And late that same night the doctor, looking wistfully upon a large bottle of claret, uttered these words—
"That's a deuced good wine, that is, and I'm dog-tired, damme, and it's a dog's night, dammit. But I've got to hustle out into the thick of it, and do two 'midders' and a damnable post-mortem. You'd better come along."