"What I mean to say," explained Reginald, having made his bows, "is that you’ve got so many windows, and such decent rooms. One doesn’t expect that sort of thing in the East End. My pater will be quite pleased. It’s my pater who’s going to buy this practice for me, you know. I’m studying law, you know—goin’ in for this medico-legal game—and my pater thinks this’d be a good thing to amuse myself with until I’m through. It’s all cash, you say, Doctor.... Ah! Well, it saves a lot of fag, book-keepin’, an’ that—what? Not exactly what you might term ’classy,’ but—you needn’t tell people, eh? Who’s to know—what? "Of course," continued Mr. Cavendish, as if in answer to an imaginary objector, "the patients do smell, I suppose. But a chap could have a change here. A sort of professional uniform—what? Ha! Ha! This place all right for gettin’ about, Doctor? Easy reach of the West End and all that sort of thing?" "We are served by two railways," responded Doctor Brink, "besides a tramline. And there are cabs at the London Hospital." "No motor-buses, then—what? _No motor-buses_?" Doctor Brink was able to assure his visitor that the boon of the motor-bus would not be absent from that gentleman’s future joys. The cloud which had sombred Mr. Cavendish’s features immediately gave place to a smile. "Good business," he cried. "Whenever a chap gets too awfully fed up with it, then, he can nip on to something or other and have a night at the Pav.—what? Besides," added Mr. Cavendish, "a chap can put up with a lot for twelve hundred a year. That’s what it’s doing, you say?" "That’s what _I’m_ doing," replied Doctor Brink. "But then," he explained, with a mild expression, "I haven’t tried the effect of running the practice from the Pav." "Oh, quite," assented Mr. Cavendish. "What I mean to say is, of course not. But when I take over the practice, I shall run an assistant: one of those middle-aged Scotch chaps, you know, with a turn-down collar. A chap can afford to have one of those beggars if he’s doing twelve hundred—especially when he’s a bachelor—what? Ha! Ha! ... I shall let my assistant do most of the night-work and the confinements, and all that sort of thing. I’m a consulting-room man, really." The other practitioner merely smiled. "I suppose," continued Mr. Cavendish, "that you don’t give these beggars anything very special in the way of drugs. No elaborate gout cures—what? Ha! Ha!" "It’s a faith-cure practice almost entirely," replied the doctor, winking at your servant. "Oh," said Mr. Cavendish, a little coldly. "Of course, I should run the show on dignified lines. They’ll have everything in reason. I shall do my own dispensing. You can be sure that they get the right stuff then—what?" Again the doctor merely smiled.