Herrick, who had brought down important papers from the Temple, asked when he could discuss them with Sir John. To his surprise, Aldwyth showed some doubt. “Father is not quite himself,” she said hesitatingly. “But perhaps---- Well come in and I’ll ask him.” They walked across the grass and re-entered the hotel. The band--of violins and harps--was playing its final waltz, and the guests, who were lounging here and there, gazed with interest at the tall and comely couple. The well-knit figure and bearing of the young barrister won some approval; but the critical faculty of the lady onlookers expended itself chiefly in observing the evening dress and general style of his companion. Let no man expect that he will make any particular impression when there is a woman at his side whose costume calls for criticism, or the sincere flattery of imitation. Aldwyth went upstairs to the suite of rooms reserved for Sir John Westwood and herself, and Herrick, waiting her message, turned into the smoking-room, where only two men were sitting, and those engaged in earnest conversation. In the light of after events Herrick often recalled much of what they said. It was an open conversation in a public room. The speakers were unknown to him. Later on, he learnt that one was Dr Wilson Wake, a nerve specialist, to whose consulting rooms in Harley Street patients crowded. The other was a writer, whose essays in the weightier reviews had attracted much attention. “It happened before, and it will happen again,” the doctor was saying. “It was simply a sequel to the ravages of bubonic plague.” “You mean the Black Death of the fourteenth century?” “That, of course, was the popular name of the disease. The Italians, in their more musical language, called it ’_la mortalega grande_’--the Great Mortality.” “But you surely don’t anticipate----?” “A similar visitation?--certainly not. We were only speaking of the after effects; and similar effects might, and, in my judgment will, be produced in modern times by some less appalling form of physical disease. The _Chorea_, or Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages was the outcome of the Black Death, and the Dancing Mania itself was simply the expression of disordered nerves.” “But, my dear sir, this is the twentieth century.” “History always repeats itself, though with interesting variations. My dear fellow, the nervous system of the nation is out of order.” “You ought to know.” “I do,” said the specialist, drawing at his cigar. “But the extent of the mortality from plague was greatly exaggerated,” protested the other. “Of course, of course; nevertheless, in London upwards of fifty thousand corpses were buried in layers in a single district, and we know the burial pits even to this day.” “And, after all, the Dancing Mania was mainly a Continental development.”