Dr. Levillier was constantly, and ignorantly, entreated to adjust the one comfortably in the other.  It is a delicate business, this adjustment, sometimes an impossible business.  Half of the Harley Street patients came saying, “Make me well.”  What they really meant was, “Make me happy.”  Yet the most of them would have resented a valuable mixed prescription, advice for the hook, and advice for the eye.  Such prescriptions had to be very deftly, sometimes very furtively, made up.  Often the doctor felt an intense exhaustion steal over him towards the close of day.  This tremendous and eternal procession passing onwards through his life, filing before him like a march-past of sick soldiers, saluting him with cries, and with questions, and with entreaties; this never-ceasing progress fatigued him.  There were moments when he longed to hide his face, to turn away, to shut his ears to the murmuring voices, and his eyes to the pale, expressive faces, to put his great profession from him, as one puts a beggar into the night.  But these were only moments, and they passed quickly.  And the little doctor was always bitterly ashamed of them, as a brave man is ashamed of a secret tug of cowardice at his heart.  For it seemed to him the greatest thing in all the world to help to make the unhappy rightly happier.

And this was, and had always been, his tireless endeavour.  Upon this day one of these hated moments of mental and physical exhaustion had come upon him, and he struggled hard against his enemy.  The procession of patients had been long, and more than once in the tiny interval between the exit of one and the entry of another, Dr. Levillier had peeped at his watch.  His last appointment was at a quarter to five, then he would be free, and he said to himself that he would take a cab and drive down to Victoria Street.  Valentine was often at home about six.  The doctor put aside the little devil of pride that whispered, “You have been badly treated,” and resolved to make the advance to this friend, who seemed to have forgotten him.  In times of fatigue and depression he had often sought Valentine in order to be solaced by his music.  But this solace was at an end, unless, indeed, the strange burden of musical impotence had been lifted from Valentine, and his talent had been restored to him.

The last patient came to the doctor’s door punctually and was punctually dismissed as the clock chimed the quarter of an hour after five.  The last prescription was written.  The doctor drew in a deep breath of relief.  He touched the bell and his servant appeared.

“There is no one waiting?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“I have made no other appointment for to-day, and I am going out almost immediately.  If any patients should call casually tell them I cannot possibly see them to-day.  Ask them to make an appointment.  But I cannot see any one to-day under any circumstances.”

“Yes, sir.”