Mr. Baffin congratulated himself on these signs. "We’ll keep up the pretence at ’sitting’ a _little_ longer," he said, "and then I’ll deny myself the luxury of her assistance for a month or two. We’ll call it a ’cure’ on Monday." But when Monday came, I noticed at once certain evidences of a "relapse" in Prudence. The tears had come back, and the sulks and the silence. Even Baffin’s reminder that mother’s hour for being visited had arrived did not seem to move her. "I’m an un’eppy gel, I am," said Prudence. "I want to ask you something, Mr. Baffin." "Yes, yes," said Baffin. "I—I on’y wanted to arst you," Prudence was saying, "do—do you believe in bookmakers?" "What?" said Baffin. Prudence repeated her inquiry. "I—I don’t believe in—in auctioneers," said Baffin, blinking. "I know you down’t," responded Prudence. "But I want to know your opinion of bookmakers—_this time_." *XXXVI* *A BIRTHDAY PARTY* I was sitting on the gas-stove in Dr. Brink’s refectory when Mr. William Dawkins entered the consulting-room. And having applied my eye to the squint-hole so thoughtfully provided by Dr. Brink for the education of his guests, I was able to view and rejoice in the arrival of Mr. Dawkins. That gentleman’s "entrance," as they say in the Strand, was decidedly impressive. He came in under the escort of three cronies, and he was wearing a white waistcoat and a smile and a blood-stained head. He was singing. "Did you collect all this by the side of the Zuyder Zee?" inquired the doctor, in his softest bedside voice. The patient offered no reply to this question; but smiling, oh, so happily, he continued to pour forth the fresh, glad notes of his voluntary. The largest and dirtiest member of the escort, feeling, evidently, that the circumstances demanded explanation, was accordingly so kind as to offer it. "This," he said, "is Bill Dawkins. Young Bill Dawkins, you know: ’im what works at the coal-wharf." The doctor bowed. "Bill is a hearty fellow," he said, "and his head has been banged about damned awful, and you have not introduced me to him a moment too soon. I shall have to stitch that forehead." Mr. Dawkins received this information with his sunniest smile. "Don’t be shy, ole love," he said. "Bill don’t fret, thank Gawd. My name is Bill Dawkins. Thank Gawd fur that!" "I shan’t be shy," replied the doctor, with a reassuring smirk, as he fumbled amongst a case of cutlery. "What have you been up to, by the way?" Mr. Dawkins, however, had relapsed into melody: and the only answer which Dr. Brink received to his inquiry was the assurance that he was Mr. Dawkins’s Bluebell. "What _has_ he been up to?" asked the doctor again, addressing himself to the largest escort. "Eh?" said that gentleman. "I say," repeated the doctor, preparing for action, "that I’d like to know what he’s been up to?" "’Oo been up to?" inquired the escort. "William," said the doctor.