My
experience with Cullingworth had taught me one thing at
least,--that patients care nothing about your house if
they only think that you can cure them. Once get that
idea into their heads, and you may live in a vacant stall
in a stable and write your prescriptions on the manger.
Still, as this was, for many a day to come, to be the
only furnished room in my house, it was worth a
little planning to get it set out to the best advantage.
My red drugget I laid out in the centre, and fastened
it down with brass-headed nails. It looked much smaller
than I had hoped,--a little red island on an ocean of
deal board, or a postage stamp in the middle of an
envelope. In the centre of it I placed my table, with
three medical works on one side of it, and my
stethoscope and dresser's case upon the other. One chair
went with the table, of course; and then I spent the next
ten minutes in trying to determine whether the other two
looked better together--a dense block of chairs, as it
were--or scattered so that the casual glance would get
the idea of numerous chairs. I placed them finally one
on the right, and one in front of the table. Then I put
down my fender, and nailed "Spring," "The Banjo Players,"
and "Windsor Castle" on to three of the walls, with the
mental promise that my first spare half-crown should buy
a picture for the fourth. In the window I placed my
little square table, and balanced upon it a photograph
with an ivory mounting and a nice plush frame which I had
brought in my trunk.
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