It was this missive, reaching the doctor at his breakfast table, which caused a beautiful philanthropist to enter his surgery at tea-time. She came in immediate response to the doctor’s invitation; she came with a rush, having been carried hither by her 80-h.p. 8-cylinder light touring car. "And, oh, _dear_ Dr. Brink," she said, "how simply charming it is to meet you! One has so often read your bright little speeches about this shocking poverty. One simply yearns to do something. How one envies you your strength, your power, your splendid opportunities. How you must _revel_ in your work here, Doctor! It must be simply charming!" "About as charming," said the doctor, "as keeping pigs and sleeping with them." The beautiful philanthropist broke into appreciative titters. "_Pigs_, Doctor!" she cried, with the archest look. "_Pigs_! He! he! And you call yourself a Socialist! Of course, I’m not a Socialist myself. One’s husband cannot be expected to approve of such extremes as that. But one need not be a Socialist in order to feel sorry for them. Now, need one, Doctor? But when one is a woman, it is all so difficult. Oh, Doctor, can one do _nothing_?" "One _can_," replied the doctor; "but one won’t. That, madame, is the difficulty." "I don’t quite understand you," said the lady. "You ask me," explained the doctor, "whether one can do nothing. I reply that one can: that this is all we ask of one—to do nothing." "To do _nothing_? _D-o-c-t-o-r_!" "It does sound revolutionary, perhaps," admitted the doctor. "But it is really true. We ask one to do _nothing_. We ask one to be so kind as to sit at home and draw threads out of teacloths. And to draw cheques. But not to leave one’s blameless hearth. We ask one to keep away. The pig-stye is a dirty pig-stye, and it’s got to be cleaned by dirty people. Nice people—manicured people—-are best out of it. See?" "I see that you want to be rude," said the lady, "but I don’t—— What is it all about, Doctor?" "This," said Dr. Brink. And he gave her Mrs. Bennett’s letter. And she read it silently. And she stood up. "Really, Doctor," she observed, "one doesn’t quite know what to say. I’m sorry, I suppose. I will write and apologise to Mrs. Bennett. I’ll go home and draw threads. "Don’t trouble to get up," she continued, as the doctor rose from his chair. "Don’t trouble to get up. You are quite the rudest man I’ve ever met. Please don’t trouble to get up." She reached the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned to him again. "You are quite the rudest man I’ve ever met," she said again. "Quite the rudest.... I’ll send you some money for your pigs." *XVI* *BAFFIN’S FIND* Baffin came home one evening in a state of wild-eyed exaltation. He had found _the_ face for his "Mist Maiden." Its name was Prudence Croft.