after all he would be forced to return to London in search of quiet. The country was evidently packed with adventures too monstrously anti-climatic for him. And he fell asleep as a protest against the obvious mismanagement of his affairs by fate.
On the morrow the doctor came again, chatted for a quarter of an hour, then, like a breeze on a hot summer's day, departed. The nurse was negative: she was uncongenial, uncompanionable, uneverything.
On the second day the proprietor came to see the patient. He was a little man with a round figure and a round smile. He entered the room as if it had been a death-chamber, approached the bed on tip-toe, and smiled nervously. As a landlord he was all that could be desired. He would meet his guests at the door and welcome them as a good host should. He would enquire after their comfort, and in the mornings ask if they had slept well. He would gossip with them cheerfully if they showed themselves inclined for talk, and he personally superintended the kitchen, having once been a chef. In short, he strove to combine all that was most attractive in modern comfort with the best traditions of the old coaching days.
In a sick-room, however, the landlord of "The Two Dragons" was out of place. Rich in tact and amiability, he was bankrupt in all else. He spoke in a hushed whisper, sat on the extreme edge of his chair, and coughed nervously from time to time, raising the tips of his fingers to his lips. He was
