Part 4

Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all events. [_Looking at his case book._] Four visits. That’ll be five guineas. By Jove, I want them.

PENELOPE.

What’s the matter with her?

DICKIE.

I don’t know, but I’m pretending I do. And she probably won’t find out.

PENELOPE.

I’ll leave you. I must just telephone to some one.

[_She goes out._ DICKIE _walks up and down irritably. When_ MRS. WATSON _appears he at once puts on his professional manner, and is very bland and affable_. MRS. WATSON _is a little, old lady in black_.

DICKIE.

Well, Mrs. Watson?

MRS. WATSON.

You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after five, but I’m going away.

DICKIE.

I’m delighted to see you. I promise you that.

MRS. WATSON.

I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought I’d like to see you again before I went.

DICKIE.

Of course. And how have you been getting on?

MRS. WATSON.

[_With the keenest satisfaction._] Oh! I don’t get on. I never get better.

DICKIE.

Have you been taking your medicine regularly?

MRS. WATSON.

[_Cheerfully._] Yes; but it doesn’t do me any good.

DICKIE.

Let’s try your knee jerks, shall we?

[MRS. WATSON _crosses one leg over the other, and_ DICKIE _taps below the knee; the leg is slightly jerked up_.

DICKIE.

That seems right enough.

MRS. WATSON.

Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and worse!

DICKIE.

You seem uncommonly cheerful about it.

MRS. WATSON.

I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I can never be grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.

DICKIE.

It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else to-day.

MRS. WATSON.

Oh! make it nice and strong; won’t you, doctor?

DICKIE.

You seem to like your medicine with some body in it.

MRS. WATSON.

Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my daughter’s married I’m very much alone. I think I’ve taken every medicine in the Pharmacopœia, and they’ve none of them done me any good.

DICKIE.

[_Handing her a prescription._] Well, perhaps this will. You must take it three times a day before meals.

MRS. WATSON.

[_Looking at it._] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.

DICKIE.

Well, try it again. Perhaps you didn’t give it a fair chance.

MRS. WATSON.

I was reading in the _Lancet_ the other day that a German doctor had discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m sure it’s the very thing for me.

DICKIE.

What on earth were you reading the _Lancet_ for?

MRS. WATSON.

Oh, I always read the _Lancet_ and the _British Medical Journal_. You see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.

DICKIE.

[_With a gasp._] You don’t mean to say your husband was a doctor?

MRS. WATSON.

Oh, I thought I told you that I was a doctor’s widow.

[DICKIE _tries to master his agitation while_ MRS. WATSON _prattles on_.

MRS. WATSON.

I can never bear to hear doctors spoken badly of. They never do me any good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely treated, and that--if you’ll believe it--was by a mere nobody. I told him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said. I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and milk. Then he said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said, Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.

DICKIE.

Fancy.

MRS. WATSON.

Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I just swept out of the room. [_Archly._] You won’t give me that new medicine?

DICKIE.

Honestly, I don’t think it’s quite what you want.

MRS. WATSON.

Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.

DICKIE.

[_Sarcastically._] Oh, it’s of no value, thank you.

MRS. WATSON.

[_Persuasively._] Will you tell me what I owe you?

DICKIE.

Oh, as a doctor’s widow, of course, I couldn’t dream of accepting a fee.

MRS. WATSON.

That is kind of you. But you must allow me to give you a little present.

DICKIE.

[_Rather feebly, but brightening up a little._] Oh, really, you know....

MRS. WATSON.

I’ve seen every doctor in London of any importance, and they’ve none of them charged me a penny, but I always make them a little present. I know that you doctors have to go out in all weathers, and you never wrap yourselves up. So I give them a woollen comforter.

[_She takes out of her bag a large red woollen comforter._

DICKIE.

[_Blankly._] Oh, thank you very much.

MRS. WATSON.

I made it myself.

DICKIE.

Did you!

MRS. WATSON.

And Sir Benjamin promised to wear his every winter. You’ll find it so warm.

DICKIE.

I’m very grateful to you.

MRS. WATSON.

And now, good-bye, and thank you so much.

DICKIE.

When you come back from the Riviera, you might do worse than consult Dr. Rogers. He lives just at the other end of the street, you know. He’s very good in cases like yours.

MRS. WATSON.

Thank you so much.

DICKIE.

Good-bye.

[_She goes out, and he shuts the door. He runs to the other and calls out._

DICKIE.

Pen! Pen!

PENELOPE’S VOICE.

Yes.

[_There is a knock at the door._

DICKIE.

[_Irritably._] Come in.

[MRS. WATSON _enters_.

MRS. WATSON.

I knew there was something I wanted to ask you particularly, and I nearly forgot it. Sir Benjamin Broadstairs said I ought never to eat anything but toast, and Sir William Wilson said he didn’t think toast was at all good for me, and I only ought to eat bread. Now, I wonder what I had better do?

DICKIE.

[_Seriously, as if he were deliberating._] Well, if I were you, I’d eat bread toasted only on one side.

MRS. WATSON.

Thank you so much. Good-bye. I hope you’ll like the comforter.

DICKIE.

I’m sure I shall. Good-bye.

[_She goes out again, and_ DICKIE _shuts the door_.

DICKIE.

Pen! Pen!

[PENELOPE _comes in by the other door_.

PENELOPE.

What is the matter?

[DICKIE _goes up to her furiously with the comforter in his hands_.

DICKIE.

Look! That’s my fee! That!

PENELOPE.

It’s a woollen comforter.

DICKIE.

Don’t be idiotic, Penelope. I can see it’s a woollen comforter.

PENELOPE.

But what’s the meaning of it?

DICKIE.

She’s a doctor’s widow. Of course I couldn’t charge her anything. She kept it dark till to-day. I’ll tell you what, doctors’ widows oughtn’t to be allowed to survive their husbands.

PENELOPE.

Oh!

DICKIE.

When you’re my widow, Pen, you go right up one side of Harley Street and then right down the other and see them all.

PENELOPE.

But supposing I’m not ill?

DICKIE.

Hang it all, when you’ve lost me the least you can do is to enjoy indifferent health.

[PEYTON _comes in_.

PEYTON.

If you please, sir, Mrs. Watson says, may she just see you for one minute.

DICKIE.

[_Resigned._] Yes.

[_Exit_ PEYTON.

DICKIE.

What the dickens does she want now?

[PEYTON _shows_ MRS. WATSON _in_.

MRS. WATSON.

You’ll think you’ve never seen the last of me.

DICKIE.

[_Blandly._] Not at all. Not at all.

MRS. WATSON.

I’ve been thinking about what you said about toasting my bread on one side.... On which side shall I put the butter?

DICKIE.

[_With his chin in his hand._] H’m. H’m. You must put the butter on the toasted side.

MRS. WATSON.

Oh, thank you. Now just one more question, do you think a little jam would hurt me?

DICKIE.

No, I don’t think a little jam would hurt you, but you mustn’t put it on the same side as you put the butter.

MRS. WATSON.

Oh, thank you. Good afternoon. I’m so much obliged.

DICKIE.

Not at all. Not at all.

[MRS. WATSON _goes out_.

DICKIE.

[_Shaking his fist at the door._] Suttee.... That’s the word. Suttee.

PENELOPE.

Dickie, what are you talking about?

DICKIE.

I’ve been trying to think of it for ten minutes. That’s what doctors’ widows ought to do--Suttee. Like the Hindoos.

PENELOPE.

Burn themselves alive at their husbands’ death?

DICKIE.

You’ve hit it. Suttee. That’s the word.

PENELOPE.

But, darling, I should hate to grace your funeral by making a bonfire of myself.

DICKIE.

Oh, you have no affection for me.

PENELOPE.

Lots, but that’s asking a great deal, isn’t it?

DICKIE.

No, you don’t care for me as much as you used to. You’re quite different. I’ve noticed lots of things.

PENELOPE.

[_With a rapid glance at him, but keeping her chaffing manner._] Oh, nonsense.

DICKIE.

You’ve changed lately. You never come down to see me off in the morning, and you don’t ask me at what time I’m coming back. You always used to sit on the arm of my chair after breakfast when I was smoking my pipe and reading the paper.

PENELOPE.

You must have hated it, didn’t you?

DICKIE.

Of course I hated it, but it showed you were fond of me, and now that you don’t do it any more I miss it.

[PEYTON _comes in, followed by_ MRS. FERGUSSON, _and withdraws_.

PEYTON.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[DICKIE _gives a slight start, and shows faint signs of annoyance. He cannot make out what_ MRS. FERGUSSON _has come for_.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

The maid told me you were here, so I asked her to show me straight in. I hope you don’t mind.

PENELOPE.

Of course not. We’re delighted to see you anywhere. Won’t you have some tea?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

No, thank you. The fact is, I’ve come to see Dr. O’Farrell professionally.

PENELOPE.

You’re not ill?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I’ve not been very well lately, and I thought I’d like to see a doctor. [_To_ DICKIE.] Will you treat me?

DICKIE.

I’ll do anything I can for you.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

But it must be really a professional visit. You know, I want to pay.

PENELOPE.

Oh, nonsense, Dickie couldn’t dream of accepting money from one of my friends.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

No, I’ve got the strictest principles on that point. I think it’s too bad of people to want a doctor to treat them for nothing. I really insist on paying the usual fee.

DICKIE.

Oh, well, we’ll discuss that later.

PENELOPE.

I’ll leave you alone, shall I?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Do you mind, dear? It makes me a little uncomfortable to discuss my symptoms before a third party.

PENELOPE.

Of course.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

We shall only be five minutes.

PENELOPE.

I warn you that Dickie’s medicines are perfectly beastly.

[_She goes out._

DICKIE.

I’m sorry you’re seedy. You were all right yesterday.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_Laughing._] I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.

[DICKIE _is rather taken aback_.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

That’s the advantage of you being a doctor. When I want to see you alone I can do it under your wife’s very nose. Don’t you think it was rather ingenious?

DICKIE.

[_Dryly._] Very.

[_She gives a little laugh. She gets up and steps cautiously to the door, and suddenly flings it open._

DICKIE.

What on earth are you doing?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I wanted to see if Penelope was listening.

DICKIE.

[_Rather sharply._] Of course she wasn’t listening. That’s about the last thing she’d do.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, my dear, don’t get in a temper about it. Lots of women do listen, you know.

DICKIE.

Do they? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Fiddle.

DICKIE.

Then will you tell me in what way I can be of use to you?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_Good-humouredly._] Certainly not, if you ask me as crossly as that. You may kiss my hand. [_He does so._] That’s right. Still cross?

DICKIE.

No.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Do you love me as much as ever?

DICKIE.

Yes.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

You wouldn’t say no if you didn’t, would you?

DICKIE.

No.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Brute!

DICKIE.

[_Rather impatiently._] I say, what on earth have you come for?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

You _are_ nice to me to-day.

DICKIE.

Well, when I left you yesterday we fixed up everything. I gave you your ticket, and I wrote down the time the train started.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Well, for one thing I wanted to see Penelope.

DICKIE.

Why?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

It amuses me to see her simplicity. I get a lot of pleasure in looking at her and thinking how little she suspects what is going on under her very nose. She’s the most trusting person I ever met in my life.

DICKIE.

If you want to know anything, it makes me feel devilish uncomfortable.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

My poor, dear boy, what _are_ you talking about?

DICKIE.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we had to take any precautions. But she trusts us absolutely. Why, she’s always throwing us together. It never enters her head that there can be the least reason for suspicion. It’s like knocking a man down who can’t defend himself.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I suppose that means that you no longer love me?

DICKIE.

Of course I love you. Good heavens, I’ve told you so till I’m blue in the face.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, no, you no longer love me. Men only begin to have scruples when they stop caring for you.

[DICKIE _gives a sigh of resignation. This is not the first scene he has had to put up with._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I’ve sacrificed everything for your sake. And now you insult me. And when I think of my poor husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land! Oh, it’s cruel, cruel!

DICKIE.

But I’ve only said it made me feel low down to treat Penelope badly.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

You don’t think of my feelings. You don’t think how I feel. What about my husband?

DICKIE.

Well, you see I don’t happen to know your husband, and I do know my wife.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Don’t be so stupid. Of course you know your wife.

DICKIE.

That’s why I don’t like behaving like an utter cad.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

If you really loved me you would think of nothing but me, nothing, nothing, nothing.

[_She puts her handkerchief to her eyes._

DICKIE.

Oh, I say, don’t cry.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I shall cry. I’ve never been treated like this before. If you don’t love me any more, why don’t you say so?

DICKIE.

Yes, I do love you. But....

MRS. FERGUSSON.

But what?

DICKIE.

[_Nervously._] Well--er--I think it would be much better if we--put the trip to Paris off for a bit.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_Gasping with anger._] Oh! Oh! Oh!

DICKIE.

Penelope’s so blindly confident.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I’ll never speak to you again. I wish I had never met you. Oh, how can you insult me like this!

[_She begins to sob._

DICKIE.

Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I say, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be horrid. I’m awfully sorry.

[_He tries to take away her hands from her face._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.

DICKIE.

I’ll do anything you like if you won’t cry. I say, just think if Penelope came in--I was only thinking of the risk to you. Of course, there’s nothing I’d like so much as a jaunt over the Channel.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Is that true?

DICKIE.

Yes.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Do you really want me to come?

DICKIE.

Of course I do, if you don’t mind the risk.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_With a smile._] Oh, I’ll make that all right.

DICKIE.

Why, what are you going to do?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Wait a minute or two and you’ll see.

[_She is perfectly composed again, and in high good-humour._

DICKIE.

We might tell Penelope that we’re ready.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Very well. [_As_ DICKIE _goes to the door_.] Oh, I quite forgot. I’ve simply got a head like a sieve.

DICKIE.

What’s the matter?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Well, I almost forgot the very thing I came to see you about. And all through you making a scene.

DICKIE.

Did I make a scene? I wasn’t aware of it.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I want to ask you something. You won’t be angry, will you?

DICKIE.

I shouldn’t think so.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Of course it’s nothing very important really, but it’s just a little awkward to ask.

DICKIE.

Oh, nonsense. Of course I’ll do anything I can.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Well, a friend of mine on the Stock Exchange gave me a splendid tip, and....

DICKIE.

It hasn’t come off. I know those splendid tips.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, but it’s bound to be all right, only there are some differences to pay. I don’t quite understand what it all means, but Solly Abrahams....

DICKIE.

[_Interrupting._] Is that your friend on the Stock Exchange?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Yes, why?

DICKIE.

Oh, nothing. Good old Scotch name, that’s all.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Solly says I must send him a cheque for a hundred and eighty pounds.

[DICKIE _gives a slight start, and his face falls_.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

And it’s just a little awkward for me to pay that just now. You see my income is always paid me half-yearly, and I really haven’t got a hundred and eighty pounds in the bank. I never borrow--it’s a thing I can’t bear--and I felt the only person I could come to now was you.

DICKIE.

I’m sure that’s awfully nice of you, not to say flattering.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I knew you’d give it me at once, and, of course, I’ll pay you back out of my profits.

DICKIE.

Oh, that’s very good of you. I’ll see what I can do.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to write out a cheque now? It’ll be such a weight off my mind.

DICKIE.

Of course. I’ll be only too glad. By the way, what are the shares called?

[_He sits down at his desk and writes a cheque._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, it’s a gold mine. It’s called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem.

DICKIE.

The name inspires confidence.

[_He gives her the cheque._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Thanks, so much. It’s awfully good of you. Now just write out a little prescription so as to have something to show Penelope.

DICKIE.

You forget nothing.

[_He writes._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

And I must give you a fee.

DICKIE.

Oh, I wouldn’t bother about that.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh yes, I insist. Besides, it makes it look so much more probable.

[_She looks in her purse._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, how stupid of me! I’ve only got a two-shilling bit in my purse. You don’t happen to have a couple of sovereigns on you.

DICKIE.

Oh, yes, I think I have. The only money I’ve earned to-day.

[_He takes them out of his pocket and gives them to_ _Mrs. Fergusson_. _She puts them on the desk with a two-shilling piece._

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Thank you.... There. That looks a most imposing fee. You must leave it on there for Penelope to see.

DICKIE.

Shall I call her?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I will. [_She goes to the door and calls._] Penelope, we’ve quite done.

DICKIE.

[_Hearing voices upstairs._] Hulloa, there’s our Uncle Davenport.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, I met him in the park the other day. He made himself so pleasant. He asked me if I was a Fergusson of Glengary. I didn’t know what he meant, but I said I was, and he seemed so pleased.

DICKIE.

You’d better not let him know you were a Miss Jones or he’ll have a fit.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, I shall tell him I’m a Jones of Llandudno. I think that sounds rather smart.

DICKIE.

You have what one might politely describe as a remarkable power of invention.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I don’t know about that, but I am a womanly woman, and that’s why men like me.

[PENELOPE _and_ BARLOW _come in_.

BARLOW.

Ah, Mrs. Fergusson, this is a delightful surprise.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

You wicked, wicked man, I am told you’re such a rake.

PENELOPE.

Uncle Davenport?

BARLOW.

[_Delighted._] Ah, ah. Tales out of school, Mrs. Fergusson.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to me for half an hour in the park.

BARLOW.

[_Bubbling over with delight._] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear. A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our world is so small and so censorious.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been very well lately.

BARLOW.

Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and extremely handsome.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell me how ill I looked.

BARLOW.

If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look anything but charming.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back from Paris.

[DICKIE _gives a start_.

PENELOPE.

Are you going to Paris?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve. Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And so....

PENELOPE.

Mrs. Mack has asked you to go in her maid’s place?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me honestly, do you mind?

PENELOPE.

I?

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be travelling back together.

PENELOPE.

What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie to have some one to travel with.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Then that settles it. I like to do everything above board, you know.

BARLOW.

[_Seeing the guineas on the desk._] I see you’ve been raking in the shekels, Dickie.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee--I particularly want you to know that, Penelope--I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.

PENELOPE.

Oh, but Dickie can’t accept it. [_To_ DICKIE.] You are a grasping old thing!

DICKIE.

I’m sure I didn’t want the money.

PENELOPE.

You really must take it back, Ada.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_Putting up a defensive hand._] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my principles.

PENELOPE.

I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.

[PENELOPE _takes up the money and gives it to_ MRS. FERGUSSON.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, well, of course, if you take it like that, I don’t know what to do.

PENELOPE.

Put it in your purse and say no more about it.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

Oh, it’s too good of you.

[_She puts it in her purse._ DICKIE’S _face falls as he sees his own money disappearing_.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

And now I must really fly. [_Holding out her hand to_ BARLOW.] Good-bye. Don’t forget to come and see me, but, remember, I shall expect to hear all about that little ballet-girl.

BARLOW.

[_Delighted to be thought so gay._] You mustn’t ask me to be indiscreet.

MRS. FERGUSSON.

[_To_ PENELOPE.] Good-bye, dear.

PENELOPE.

I’ll come to the door with you.

[PENELOPE _and_ MRS. FERGUSSON _go out_.

DICKIE.

[_Going to the telephone._] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.

BARLOW.

No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.

DICKIE.

Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [_He puts on the receiver--to himself, acidly._] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.

BARLOW.

Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.

DICKIE.

Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.

BARLOW.