I cannot feel that I was ever meant for the Berthellot Institute; it was too breezy for me altogether. I discontinued my attendance at the lectures before my proper time was up, and consequently was never recorded as a failure. Meanwhile a friend, Mrs. Sholto,[3] had recommended me to yet another variety of mind-doctors, the Mental Homœopathists, who were the sworn rivals of the Berthellot system. Theirs was a home treatment, and all you had to do was to murmur to yourself at frequent intervals, “Every day in every way I grow worse and worse and worse!” You were also recommended to study a little pamphlet on the human body, entitled, “Our Disastrous Inheritance,” which showed you pictures of various parts of the human body suffering under the influence of virulent diseases, and gave you a long index of all possible morbid conditions of the human frame—Juliet said it was exactly like a manual she had called “Helicopter Troubles, and how to Trace them.” I think I ought to have been an apt pupil for this system—the idea of which was that the conscious mind is in continual revolt from the impressions of the subconscious mind, and the more depressed your subconsciousness was the better your chance of recovery—for Mr. Druce had been an admirable preparation for it. But, though I stuck to it for some time, and seemed to have been gaining strength, an unexpected afternoon call from S—— immediately threw me back into a serious relapse. Finally, I was induced to go down to Winchcombe, in the Cotswolds, to try the “colour-cure” which had recently been attracting a good deal of attention. After a long examination, I was relegated to the “orange suite,” where I was expected to pass a complete fortnight. There were numerous other “orange” patients, but I was not allowed to speak to any of them: a saturnine old woman sat in one corner of the room, with the detached air of a bath attendant, to see that the rules were kept. I was given an orange dress, which matched the wall-paper, the furniture, even the flowerbeds outside the window. Reading was allowed, but not encouraged; the great point, I was told, was to become saturated with orange as early as possible. I certainly became fed up with orange long before the fortnight was over, and by breaking a window (for which I afterwards paid) contrived to get away into the grounds, and so, with the help of an errand-boy, into the outside world. To this day I cannot bear so much as an orange ribbon in my boudoir. I suppose Dr. Tryer would have called that an inhibition. I cannot describe what a comfort it was to get home, and to find that my maid Antoinette had lit a fire in my bedroom, and got a mustard bath ready (she always stuck to it that I had only a cold), and had put a hot-water bottle in my bed and a Lourdes medal under the pillow. And so I found peace after all my rest-cures.