Well, the dear old lady was very angry. I don't
suppose she quite understood how temporary the necessity
was, and how impossible it would have been to leave
Cullingworth in the lurch. She was silent for nearly
three weeks, and then she wrote a very stinging letter
(and she handles her adjectives most deftly when she
likes). She went so far as to say that Cullingworth was
a "bankrupt swindler," and that I had dragged the family
honour in the dirt by my prolonged association with him.
This letter came on the morning of the very last day that
my patient was confined to the house. When I returned
from work I found him sitting in his dressing-gown
downstairs. His wife, who had driven home, was beside
him. To my surprise, when I congratulated him on being
fit for work again, his manner (which had been most
genial during his illness) was as ungracious as before
our last explanation. His wife, too, seemed to avoid my
eye, and cocked her chin at me when she spoke.
"Yes, I'll take it over to-morrow," said he. "What
do I owe you for looking after it?"
"Oh, it was all in the day's work," said I.
"Thank you, I had rather have strict business,"
he answered. "You know where you are then, but a
favour is a thing with no end to it. What d'you put it
at?"
"I never thought about it in that light."
"Well, think about it now. A locum would have cost
me four guineas a week.
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