A surgeon was requested to visit a patient in one of the suburbs of the metropolis. When he arrived there, he had to mount two or three dilapidated steps, and to read a number which had been so nearly worn away, that he was enabled to determine whether it was the number he sought only by the more legible condition of its two neighbours. Having applied a very loose, dilapidated knocker, an old woman came to the door.
"Does Captain —— live here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is he at home?"
"Yes, sir. Please, sir, may I be so bold—are you the doctor, sir?"
"Yes."
"Oh! then, sir, please to walk up."
The surgeon went up a small, narrow staircase, into a moderate-size, dirty, ill-furnished room, the walls of which were coloured something between yellow and red, with a black border. An old man, in a very shabby and variegated deshabille, rose from his chair, and, with a grace worthy of a court, welcomed the stranger. His manner was extremely gentlemanly, his language well chosen, the statement of his complaint particularly simple and clear. The surgeon, who, like most of us, sees strange things, was puzzled to make out his new patient; but concluded he was one of the many who, having been born to better things, had been reduced by some misfortune to narrow circumstances. Everything seemed to suggest that construction, and to warrant no other. Accordingly, having prescribed, the surgeon was about to take his leave, when the old gentleman said:
"Sir, I thank you very much for your attention;" at the same time offering his hand with a fee.
This the surgeon declined, simply saying: