'I love a lassie, a bonny, bonny lassie,' sang George. 'She's as pure as the lily in the dell.'
'No doubt,' said the specialist, wincing a little.
'She's as sweet as the heather, the bonny purple heather—Susan, my Worcestershire bluebell.'
'Ah!' said the specialist. 'Sounds a nice girl. Is this she?' he asked, adjusting his glasses and peering at the photograph which George had extracted from the interior of the left side of his under-vest.
George nodded, and drew in breath.
'Yes, sir,' he carolled, 'that's my baby. No, sir, don't mean maybe. Yes, sir, that's my baby now. And, by the way, by the way, when I meet that preacher I shall say—"Yes, sir, that's my—"'
'Quite,' said the specialist, hurriedly. He had a sensitive ear. 'Quite, quite.'
'If you knew Susie like I know Susie,' George was beginning, but the other stopped him.
'Quite. Exactly. I shouldn't wonder. And now,' said the specialist, 'what precisely is the trouble? No,' he added, hastily, as George inflated his lungs, 'don't sing it. Write the particulars on this piece of paper.'
George did so.