At this juncture Mr. Prohack was rather relieved that the sound of an
unaccustomed voice in the hall drew his daughter out of the dining-room.
When she had gone Dr. Veiga went on, in a more confidential tone:

"There's another point. An idle man who really knows his business will
visit his tailor's, his hosier's, his bootmaker's, his barber's much
oftener and much more conscientiously than you do. You've got a mind
above clothes--of course. So have I. I take a wicked pleasure in being
picturesquely untidy. But I'm not a patient. My life is a great lark.
Yours isn't. Yours is serious. You have now a serious profession,
idleness. Bring your mind down to clothes. I say this, partly because to
be consistently well-dressed means much daily expenditure of time, and
partly because really good clothes have a distinctly curative effect on
the patient who wears them. Then again--"

Mr. Prohack was conscious of a sudden joyous uplifting of the spirit.

"Here!" said he, interrupting Dr. Veiga with a grand gesture. "Have a
cigar."

"I cannot, my friend." Dr. Veiga looked at his watch.

"You must. Have a corona." Mr. Prohack moved to the cigar cabinet which
he had recently purchased.

"No. My next patient is awaiting me in Hyde Park Gardens at this
moment."

"Let him die!" exclaimed Mr. Prohack ruthlessly. "You've got to have a
cigar with me. Look. I'll compromise. I'll make it a half-corona. You