It promises to bring into our grey and commonplace life that element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is savoured withal.

"In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of the background seemed to emphasise the horror of the discovery, whatever it might be.
I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan.

It was the lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.
"Good evening, Mrs.Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself, I hope." "Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the consulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair and myself at the writing-table, she continued: "It's my inside, you know, Doctor." The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the domain of the skin specialist.

I accordingly waited for enlightenment and speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs.Jablett regarded me expectantly with a dim and watery eye.
"Ah!" I said, at length; "it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs.Jablett ?" "Yus.

_And_ my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filled the apartment with odorous reminiscences of "unsweetened." "Your head aches, does it ?" "Somethink chronic!" said Mrs.Jablett.