"That is what I mean," replied the doctor. "... So you want me to send this woman to the infirmary, where they will feed her well and keep her warm between white sheets, and give her copies of the _Nineteenth Century_ to read. But during that time, you see, her ’man’ and some other woman would be pawning her home. She knows this, and I know it. So I took her home. If she has concussion, of course, she’ll _have_ to go; but short of that we can get her through it at home. There’s a boilerman’s wife in the room above who has rudimentary graces. Infirmary, forsooth! Why, even the respectable married ones would rather pawn their wedding rings than ’lie in’ on a public bed. A woman at home is a woman at home, even though she talks through the mouth of a midwife; but when a woman is in hospital William’s wages and the marble ornaments are both at William’s mercy. And so the women stop at home and call in Brink—Brink—the sixpenny doctor." I laughed. "Is it _really_ sixpence—your fee, I mean?" "It is _really_ sixpence. And my income is twelve hundred a year. I used to have a respectable half-guinea practice in Norfolk, and then I was doing eight hundred, and spending it all on dog-carts and dinner-parties. Here I have no expenses at all, except in the matter of top-hats; they insist upon top-hats. And I like the place: I am charmed with the people. Do you like smoked salmon and cold duck?" "I do." "Then come inside, and have some. And have a look at James. James will do you good. James is unique. And I can give you a bed, and I can tell you stories, and show you some fun, too—sideways sort of fun—at sixpence a time." "Sixpenny pieces," I suggested, as his key turned in the lock. *II* *CONCERNING JAMES* I have confused impressions of that first visit to the house of Dr. Brink. It was so late when we entered, you see, and all within the house was strange and unexpected, and the duck and Burgundy were very peace-provoking. The sort of house which I had expected the doctor to inhabit was not at all the sort of house he really lived in. I had, perhaps, no very definite ideas at all. One knows the _ordinary_ doctor’s house: a cool and studious consulting-room, having leathern armchairs and a telephone and a stethoscope and some framed engravings after Landseer and a silver goblet which he won at tennis in the eighties and a case of text-books and a mule canary and claret plush curtains and the centenary edition of Sir Walter Scott. And a very quiet and lofty waiting-room, containing all the illustrated papers for last April and a reading-glass and a stereoscope, besides a decanter of water and three clean tumblers.