"`Of course you don't,' I say to myself; and then I begin to talk to her a bit, and to tell her that she must have a sad wearing life of it, when the old tabby sets up her back and purrs, and likes it all--looking the while as tigerish, and sleek, and clawey, as the old cats can look. Then I tell her she wants more support, and so on, when all at once she finds out that there's some one else to attend upon, and I must drink my wine directly; so I take the glass and perhaps drink it; but more often I only just put it to my lips and set it back upon the tray, when she's satisfied. Of course, you know, it would be instant dismissal for a nurse to drink a patient's wine or spirits if it was known; but any thing left is different altogether. You know, sir, it's a dreadfully beggarly way of going to work, only as the saying goes, you must fight some one we know of with his own weapons: and now we are the very best of friends possible. You'd be surprised how we get along, and all through going without a glass now and then. The best of it is, though, that she never thinks of watering it now, like she would for another patient; so that what I miss in quantity I get in strength, and, you know, she'll do anything for me in a minute--that is, if she feels disposed." "But," said Septimus, "it seems strange that you should be so left at the mercy of these women." "What can you do?" said the old man.--"There, I 've just done, sir, and we'll go into that directly.--Who can you get to go through what these women do, unless it's these Sisters of Mercy, who many say are to become general? Suppose there was a strike, eh? Look how few people you can get to come and run the risk of fevers and all sorts of diseases. Sisters of Mercy, eh? God bless them for it then, if they will; but I hope I may never want their help, all the same. But there, we won't talk about it, only you want iron women a'most to go through it all, and it's not a life to be envied. Why, if it ain't almost leaving-time, sir, and you've kept me chatting about my affairs here, and yours are nowhere. How are you getting on?" "Badly, Matt, badly. But I've very little to say, Matt, for I was unable to get on without you," replied Septimus, smiling at the old man's coolness. "'Spose so," said Matt laconically; "let's see, sir, I think you never went any more to Finsbury?" "Where was the use," said Septimus drearily; "who can tell where a day-book fifty years old can be?" "True," said the old man thoughtfully; "butter-shop, most likely; and it wouldn't pay to go all over London buying half-pounds of `best Dorset,' on the chance of getting the right sheet. I can't see it yet, sir; and still I seem to fancy we shall do it, though everything about it seems to be all in a muddle."