"Yes, a month would do—that is—er—where would you advise me to go?"
"What climate generally suits you best?"
"I—er—was thinking of Scotland."
"In May?" queried the physician.
"A friend would lend me his country place—and I—er—should be so entirely alone."
"Quite so. Nothing could be better," replied his adviser, who, like all men who have risen in their profession, had attained an infinite knowledge of human nature.
"And you will be so kind as to write me a note, stating your opinion—about the rest—and—er—immunity from letters—and all that," said the Bishop, depositing with studied thoughtlessness a double fee on the table, "for the benefit of my—my family. She is—they are—I mean—that is, she might not realise the importance of absolute rest, and"—as a brilliant thought occurred to him—"and you'll give me a prescription."
"Certainly," said Sir Joseph. "I'll do both now."
"Thanks," murmured the Bishop, and, receiving the precious documents, he took his leave.
The great physician's letter he put carefully in an inside pocket; the prescription he never remembered to get filled.