“You're a sweet little person,” he said. “You ought to be right, but you are wrong. When I didn't work I didn't mind failing. It's when I've tried that I get sick.” Margaret's eyes brightened. There was melancholy here. “Oh, I know what you mean. I know so well. I have felt that. You mean the--the haunting fear that you may never be able to succeed; that you have not the--the talent, the capacity.” She continued pleadingly: “Oh, you mustn't think that. You can--you _will_ succeed next time, you know.” “Rather!” responded George brightly. Margaret was quite pained. She would have had him express doubt, despondently sigh; would have heartened him with her poem. The confident “rather!” jarred. She hurried from its vigour. She asked: “What had you intended to do?” “I was to have got a _locum tenens_. I think it would have developed into a permanency. A big, rough district up in Yorkshire with a man who keeps six horses going. His second assistant--a pal of mine--wants to chuck it.” “Why?” “Why? Oh, partly because he's fed up with it, partly because he wants a practice of his own.” “Ah! ... But, George, don't you want a practice of your own? You don't want to be another man's assistant, do you?” George laughed. “I can't choose, Margi. You know, if you imagine there are solid groups of people all over England anxiously praying for the arrival of a doctor, you must adjust that impression, as your father would say. These things have to be bought. I've got about three pounds, so I'm not bidding. They seldom go so cheap.” Margaret never bantered. She had no battledore light enough to return an airy shuttlecock. Now, as always, when this plaything came buoyantly towards her she swiped it with heavy force clean out of the conversational field. She said gravely: “Ah, I know what you mean. You mean that father ought to buy you a practice--ought to set you up when you are qualified. I can't discuss that, can I? It wouldn't be loyal.” “Of course not. I don't ask you.” They moved towards the sound of the breakfast bell. “You think,” Margaret continued, “that father ought to buy you a practice because your mother left him money for the purpose?” “I know she left him nearly five thousand pounds for my education and all that. I think I may have cost him three thousand, possibly four--_so_ I think I am entitled to something, _but_ I shan't get it, _therefore_ I don't worry. My hump is gone; in three months I shall be gone. Forward: I smell bacon!” Margaret smiled the wan smile of an invalid watching vigorous youth at sport. Firmly she banged the shuttlecock out of sight. “How bright you are!” she told him. “Look, here is a little poem I wrote for you last night. It's about failure and success. Don't read it now.” George was very fond of his cousin. “Oh, but I must!” he cried. “I think this was awfully nice of you. He's not down yet. Let's sit on this seat and read it together.” “Oh, not aloud. It's a silly little thing--really.” “Yes--aloud.”