the poor
monkey, as soon as he's done with Ovid. And what do you think he said
besides? He said perhaps he'd take the monkey home with him."

"I wonder what's the matter with the poor creature?" Carmina asked.

"After what Mr. Ovid has told us, I think I know," Miss Minerva
answered. "Doctor Benjulia wouldn't be interested in the monkey unless
it had a disease of the brain."

CHAPTER XIII.

Ovid had promised to return to Carmina in a minute. The minutes passed,
and still Doctor Benjulia held him in talk.

Now that he was no longer seeking amusement, in his own dreary way,
by mystifying Zo, the lines seemed to harden in the doctor's fleshless
face. A scrupulously polite man, he was always cold in his politeness.
He waited to have his hand shaken, and waited to be spoken to. And
yet, on this occasion, he had something to say. When Ovid opened the
conversation, he changed the subject directly.

"Benjulia! what brings You to the Zoological Gardens?"

"One of the monkeys has got brain disease; and they fancy I might like
to see the beast before they kill him. Have you been thinking lately of
that patient we lost?"

Not at the moment remembering the patient, Ovid made no immediate reply.
The doctor seemed to distrust his silence.

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the case?" he resumed. "We
called it hysteria, not knowing what else it was. I don't forgive the
girl for slipping through our fingers; I hate to be beaten by Death, in
that way. Have you made up your mind what to do, on the next occasion?
Perhaps you think you could have saved her life if you had been sent
for, now?"

"No, indeed, I am just as ignorant--"

"Give ignorance time," Benjulia interposed, "and ignorance will become
knowledge--if a man is in earnest. The proper treatment might occur to
you to-morrow."

He held to his idea with such obstinacy that Ovid set him right, rather
impatiently. "The proper treatment has as much chance of occurring
to the greatest ass in the profession," he answered, "as it has of
occurring to me. I can put my mind to no good medical use; my work has
been too much for me. I am obliged to give up practice, and rest--for a
time."

Not even a formal expression of sympathy escaped Doctor Benjulia. Having
been a distrustful friend so far, he became an inquisitive friend now.
"You're going away, of course," he said. "Where to? On the Continent?
Not to Italy--if you really want to recover your health!"

"W