I glanced at the list, and my stomach threw a hand-spring. Of all the barbarous lay-outs that were ever contrived, this was the most atrocious. At the top stood ‘tough, underdone, overdue tripe, garnished with garlic;’ half-way down the bill stood ‘young cat; old cat; scrambled cat;’ at the bottom stood ‘sailor-boots, softened with tallow—served raw.’ The wide intervals of the bill were packed with dishes calculated to gag a cannibal. I said:
‘Doctor, it is not fair to joke over so serious a case as mine. I came here to get an appetite, not to throw away the remnant that’s left.’
He said gravely: ‘I am not joking; why should I joke?’
‘But I can’t eat these horrors.’
‘Why not?’
He said it with a naivete that was admirable, whether it was real or assumed.
‘Why not? Because—why, doctor, for months I have seldom been able to endure anything more substantial than omelettes and custards. These unspeakable dishes of yours—’
‘Oh, you will come to like them. They are very good. And you must eat them. It is a rule of the place, and is strict. I cannot permit any departure from it.’
I said smiling: ‘Well, then, doctor, you will have to permit the departure of the patient. I am going.’
He looked hurt, and said in a way which changed the aspect of things: