The gentleman who made the suggestion is a kind guardian of my health. He is not a doctor, although I believe he did "walk the hospitals" in his early youth, but knows exactly what to advise. As a rule, when I meet him he proposes some far-a-field journey. "What!" he exclaims, in a tone of commiseration; "got a bad cold! Why not trot over to Cairo? The trip would do you worlds of good." I return: "No doubt it would, but I havn't the time." At the mere suggestion of "everyone's enemy," SAXONHURST roars with laughter. He is no slave to be bound by time. He has mapped out any number of pleasant little excursions that can be carried out satisfactorily during that period known to railway companies (chiefly August and September) as "the week's end." He has discovered that within four-and-twenty hours you can thoroughly "do" France, and within twice that time make yourself absolutely conversant with the greater part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow over" to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no lengthy proceedings. "About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you to rights," continues SAXONHURST, in a tone of conviction. "Just you trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they will pull you through. Keep your eye on the 9 A.M. Express from Victoria and you will never regret it." Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the resources of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia, lunch sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of (literally) five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight hours one could travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call upon the Gallic _douane_, test the _cuisine_ of the _buffet_ attached to the Hôtel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. ANYBODY'S "last Any-day." It seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to perform it, it was as easy as possible.