One morning the bill from Parker’s, provision merchant, High Street, Bockley, arrived by post. Catherine had expected a heavy sum to pay, but the account presented to her was absolutely staggering. It was for nineteen pounds five and fourpence. As Catherine looked at it she went quite white with panic. She dared not examine carefully every item--she was afraid to see her own extravagance written down. But as her eye swept curiously down the bill it caught sight of such things as: Port wane, half dozen, forty-two shillings; pair of cooked chickens, eight and six; two pounds of black grapes (out of season), fifteen shillings.... The bill took away all Catherine’s appetite for breakfast. From the writing-bureau she took out her bank pass-book: it showed that she had fifty-three pounds four and nine on her cheque account, and nothing on her deposit side. The situation became ominous. Out of that fifty-three pounds would have to be paid the grocer’s bill of nineteen pounds odd, the bills not yet forthcoming of the fruiterer, fishmonger, poulterer, butcher, confectioner, and dairyman (cream had been a heavy item in her diet). Plus this, small bills from the bookseller, newsagent, tobacconist and laundryman. Plus this, whatever Dr. McPherson had in store for her. Plus this, Madame Varegny, masseuse--_her_ bill of costs. In March, too, would come the bill from the press-cutting agency, the piano-tuner, and the renewal of her season ticket.... All out of fifty-three pounds! Was it possible? ... And, of course, rent and wages to Florrie.... Things were evidently fast approaching a financial crisis. One thing was absolutely clear: she must economize drastically and immediately. And one of the first steps in that direction was to get rid of the nurse and the doctor. Except for the neuritis in her arm she was really quite well now, and both nurse and doctor were completely unnecessary. But it required a tremendous effort to tell them their services were no longer required. Her illness seemed to have sapped her will power. The truth was (though she would never have admitted it) she was afraid of both the doctor and the nurse. Only her greater fear of the avalanche of the bills that was threatening her gave her a sort of nervous determination. When Dr. McPherson came in his car at ten o’clock that morning her heart was beating wildly. She wondered even then if her courage would be equal to the task. “Good morning,” he announced genially, walking briskly into the breakfast-room, “and how are we this morning? Getting along famously, eh?” “About the same,” she replied dully. “Like the massage?” “Fairly. I can’t feel it doing me any good, though.” “Oh, you haven’t been having it long enough yet. We’ll soon set you up again, you wait.... After all, you’re young. You’ve the best part of life before you. An old lady of seventy I visited yesterday said if she were only----” “Doctor!” Her voice was trying to be firm. “Yes?”