"Yes," said Aunt Cuckoo, "our bathroom is _very_ nice." "Ice bath," repeated the nurse severely. "Oh, I see," said Aunt Cuckoo with less enthusiasm. "You mean a cold bath." "Ice bath," Miss Hellner almost shouted. "With lumps of ice to float. Then I rub you with oil of olives." Aunt Cuckoo nodded gratefully; after the ice such a proceeding sounded luxurious. "Then with nothing on you will do the gymnastic. Up and down the room. Backwards and forwards. So." "Dear me, with nothing on? Absolutely nothing? Couldn't I keep a small towel?" "Nothing on," repeated the masseuse obstinately. "Then you sit for ten minutes in the window with the fan." "But surely not with nothing on except a fan?" "With nothing on," the masseuse insisted. "Then----" She paused impressively, while Aunt Cuckoo looked excessively agitated, and Jasmine wondered what ultimate ordeal she was going to prescribe. Surely she could not intend to make the patient sit in the garden or drive in the brougham with nothing on? "Then you will drink a large glass of lemonade and absorb the oil," Miss Hellner announced. "Good gracious! Not a very large glass of oil?" "It is the lemons who drink the oil. It was not you yourself," Miss Hellner explained scornfully. "Jasmine," said Aunt Cuckoo with one finger lifted in solemn admonition, "don't let me forget to order the lemons in good time." The lemonade was such a simple and peaceable climax that Aunt Cuckoo was evidently anxious to try it; she did not ask her niece to remind her about the ice, and in order to prevent Miss Hellner's reminding her she suggested that Jasmine should have a short lesson in the art of massage. "Oh, but I think watching you has been enough lesson for to-day" objected Jasmine, who feared the example that is better than the precept. "I don't think I could take in any more at first." "She must come to the school of Swedish culture," Miss Hellner decided. Thus it was that Jasmine found herself engaged on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to travel from Hampstead to Baker Street, with every prospect, unless fate should intervene to save her, of becoming by profession a masseuse, the last profession she would ever have chosen for herself. On the days when she did not go to Baker Street she had to comb the cats. To comb seven Angora cats was almost as tiring as massage. "I suppose this is the way your arm got bad?" she once suggested to her aunt. "Oh, no, dear," said Aunt Cuckoo. "When I was young I used to write a great deal. I wrote six novels about life in the Levant, and then I had writer's cramp."