‘I’m afraid I’m in for it,’ Mrs. Evitt exclaimed to a neighbour, who had dropped in to pass the time of day and borrow an Italian iron. ‘And this time it’s ague.’ And then, forcing the attack a little for the benefit of the neighbour, she set up one of those dreadful shivering fits, which rattled all the teeth in her head. ‘It’s ague this time,’ she repeated, when the shivering had abated. ‘I never had ague until now.’ ‘Nonsense,’ cried the neighbour, with an assumption of cheerfulness. ‘It ain’t ague. Lord bless you, people don’t have ague in the heart of London, in a warm, comfortable kitchen like this. It’s only in marshes and such like places that you hear of ague.’ ‘Never you mind,’ retorted Mrs. Evitt solemnly. ‘I’ve got the ague, and if Mr. Gerard doesn’t say as much when he comes home, he isn’t the clever man I think him.’ Mr. Gerard came home in due course, letting himself in quietly with his latch-key, soon after dark. Mrs. Evitt managed to crawl upstairs with a tray, carrying a mutton chop, a loaf, and a pat of butter. To cook the chop had cost her an effort, and it was as much as she could do to drag her weary limbs upstairs. ‘Why, what’s the matter with you to-night, Mrs. Bouncer?’ asked Gerard, who had given his landlady that classic name. ‘You’re looking very queer.’ ‘I know I am,’ answered Mrs. Evitt, with gloomy resignation. ‘I’ve got the ague.’ ‘Ague? nonsense!’ cried Gerard, rising and feeling her pulse. ‘Let’s look at your tongue, old lady. That’ll do. I’ll soon set you on your legs again, if you do what I tell you.’ ‘What is that?’ ‘Get to bed, and stay there till you’re well. You’re not fit to be slaving about the house, my good soul. You must get to bed and keep yourself warm, and have some one to feed you with good soup and arrowroot, and such like.’ ‘Who’s to look after the house?’ asked Mrs. Evitt dismally. ‘I shall be ruined.’ ‘No, you won’t. I’m your only lodger just now.’ Mrs. Evitt sighed dolefully. ‘And I want very little waiting upon. You’ll want some one to wait upon you, though. You’d better get a charwoman.’ ‘Eighteenpence a day, three substantial meals, and a pint of beer,’ sighed Mrs. Evitt. ‘I should be eat out of house and home. If I must lay up, Mr. Gerard, I’ll get a girl. I know of a decent girl that would come for her vittles, and a trifle at the end of the week.’ ‘Ah,’ said Gerard, ‘there are a good many decent young men walking the streets of London, who would go anywhere for their victuals. Life’s a harder problem than any proposition in Euclid, my worthy Bouncer.’ The landlady shook her head in melancholy assent. ‘Now look here, my good soul,’ said Gerard seriously. ‘If you want to get well, you mustn’t sleep in that kennel of yours down below.’ ‘Kennel!’ cried the outraged matron, ‘kennel, Mr. Gerard! Why, you might eat your dinner off the floor.’