“And what is the son like, a malade imaginaire? I’ve never seen anything like his dressing gowns except in futurist pictures.”
“A malade imaginaire! Good Lord! no. Where are your professional eyes? Arthur is his father’s son, that is what is the matter with him. Abnormal irritability and inertia, and a tendency to dessimated sclerosis. He may have talent, I’m no judge of that; but he’ll never do anything. No sticking power. He’s doomed. If ever any one was born under an unlucky star that poor lad was. He began to cause a good deal of anxiety when he was about twenty, made a determined attempt to go to the devil: women, drink, drugs. In short, it looked at one moment as if he would be his father over again without his father’s vitality. His mother was in despair. I said to her, ‘My good woman, find him a wife; a pretty young wife who will exert a good influence over him and keep him straight.’”
“Apparently she followed your advice.”
“She did. It was the only chance for him, and not a chance worth betting on even then. I’ve often wondered how she found the girl. She makes no end of a pet of her. She’s a warmhearted old thing. She ought to have had a dozen children, and a score of grandchildren. Introduce your wife and family to her, Giles. She’ll take to them at once. She’s fond of all young people. She’s wrapped up in her son and daughter-in-law and—”
“Her goldfish?” I suggested.
“Her goldfish,” assented Dr. Whittington, with a grin. “What an ass she is. She actually believes the brute tries to jump out of the aquarium to get to her.”
“You encouraged her in that belief.”
“My dear Giles,” said my predecessor drily, “I have indicated to you the path your feet should assiduously tread as regards the Robinsons. Now come and look at my Blush Ramblers.”
Dr. Whittington was right. The Robinson family was a gold mine. It is not for me to say whether I resorted to a pick and shovel as he had done, or whether, resisting temptation, I held the balance even between my duty, and the natural cupidity of a man with an imperceptible income, and three small children. At any rate I saw a great deal of the Robinsons.
Arthur was a most interesting case, to which I brought a deep professional interest. Perhaps also I was touched by his youth and good looks, and felt compassion for the heavy handicap which life had laid upon him. I strained every nerve to help him. Dr. Whittington had been an old-fashioned somewhat narrow-minded practitioner close on seventy. I was a young man, fresh from walking the hospitals. I used modern methods, and they were at first attended with marked success. Mrs. Robinson was at my feet. She regarded me, as did Arthur, as a heaven-born genius. She openly blessed the day that had seen the retirement of Dr. Whittington. She transferred her adoration from him to me as easily as a book is transferred from one table to another. She called on my wife; and instantly enfolded her and the children in her capacious affections, and showered on us cream-cheeses, perambulators, rocking-chairs, special brands of marmalade, “The Souls’ Awakening” in a plush and gilt frame, chocolate horses and dogs, eiderdown quilts and her favourite selection from the works of Marie Corelli and Ella Wheeler-Wilcox.