The doctor laughed at this prophecy. It did not seem so impossible of realisation now as it had once been. Then he turned his attention to the stage, on which a stout lady in the shortest of skirts was favouring the audience with a song and interpolated dance of the orthodox pattern:--
"For I 'ave a little feller on the string,
(Dance)
And on me 'and he's put a little ring,
(Dance)
To the little chorch this little gal he'll taike,
She'll kiss 'im for his own sweet saike,
And he'll love 'er as 'is little bit of caike."
(Dance)
"That is Polly Horley," said Cass, referring to the singer of this gem. "She is a great favourite here."
"I don't wonder," replied Ellis, drearily; "the song is senseless enough to please even this brainless audience. Why must a music-hall ditty consist of bad English and worse grammar, delivered with a Cockney accent? Polly Horley! I know her! When I was house surgeon at St. Jude's Hospital she was brought in with a broken leg. We were excellent friends."
"Or great pals, as Miss Horley would put it. Let us send round your card and ask for an interview.'