“There must be a cause.” “That’s begging the question,” said Colonel Dacre, ashamed to find himself so irritable. “You must really excuse me, doctor, but my nerves feel so jarred, it would be quite a pleasure to me to make myself disagreeable.” “Do, by all means, if it would be any relief to you,” returned the other cheerfully. “But I ought to tell you that I fear you are on the brink of a very serious illness, and that it would be better for you to get into a quieter place while you can be moved.” “But I am very comfortable here, doctor.” “For the moment; but you will need more quiet than you can get at an hotel, however well-conducted it may be. You will be obliged to have a nurse----” “Never!” he cried emphatically. “Sairey Gamp has always been my bugbear!” “So she has mine,” was the reply. “And, therefore, all the nurses I recommend are comparatively young, and are always bright and pleasant-looking.” “And do they have a bottle of gin on the mantelpiece to put their lips to when so disposed?” “My nurses are teetotalers; all they expect in the way of stimulant is plenty of strong tea, and I don’t imagine you would grudge them that.” “Not if they drink it elsewhere; but I don’t want coddling, doctor. I shall be all right again in a day or two, no doubt.” The other shook his head. “I don’t want to be a Job’s comforter, but I can’t say I see much chance of that. Anyhow, if you will stay at this hotel you had better move into quieter rooms on an upper landing. You cannot surely object to that?” Colonel Dacre made this concession readily enough, and as Doctor May found he was likely to be rather an intractable patient, he gave the necessary orders at once. In another hour Colonel Dacre found himself in new quarters high up at the back of the house, where it was cooler and quieter both. He was given over to a chambermaid now, and welcomed the amendment, for her step was lighter, her service more gentle. She even showed a certain interest in his state, and wanted to know if he hadn’t a mother, or a wife, or any one to take care of him, sighing sympathetically when he declared himself to be alone in the world. Colonel Dacre thought the matter over very exhaustively that evening. Doctor May, who paid him a visit at about nine, had given him an opiate which soothed his nerves, and kept him quiet, although it did not make him sleep, and therefore he had plenty of time for reflection. Strange to say, his head was singularly clear all that night, but toward morning he found his mind wandering off, and was very angry with himself, persisting in thinking it must be his own fault. When Doctor May called in the morning, Colonel Dacre evidently looked upon his visit as an intrusion, but was careful to be distantly polite. “I have a vague recollection of having seen you before,” he said; “but my memory is so bad I cannot recall your name.”