stepfather as I have described, and,
between ourselves, with a mother who has rather more than her fair share
of the jealous, envious, and money-loving propensities of humanity, my
friend Ovid is not diverted by family influences from the close pursuit
of his profession. You will tell me, he may marry. Well! if he gets a
good wife she will be a circumstance in his favour. But, so far as I
know, he is not that sort of man. Cooler, a deal cooler, with women than
I am--though I am old enough to be his father. Let us get back to his
professional prospects. You heard him ask me about a patient?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Death was knocking hard at that patient's door, when I
called Ovid into consultation with myself and with two other doctors
who differed with me. It was one of the very rare cases in which the old
practice of bleeding was, to my mind, the only treatment to pursue. I
never told him that this was the point in dispute between me and the
other men--and they said nothing, on their side, at my express request.
He took his time to examine and think; and he saw the chance of saving
the patient by venturing on the use of the lancet as plainly as I
did--with my forty years' experience to teach me! A young man with that
capacity for discovering the remote cause of disease, and with that
superiority to the trammels of routine in applying the treatment, has no
common medical career before him. His holiday will set his health right
in next to no time. I see nothing in his way, at present--not even a
woman! But," said Sir Richard, with the explanatory wink of one eye
peculiar (like quotation from Shakespeare) to persons of the obsolete
old time, _"we_ know better than to forecast the weather if a petticoat
influence appears on the horizon. One prediction, however, I do risk.
If his mother buys any of that lace--I know who will get the best of the
bargain!"

The conditions under which the old doctor was willing to assume the
character of a prophet never occurred. Ovid remembered that he was going
away on a long voyage--and Ovid was a good son. He bought some of the
lace, as a present to his mother at parting; and, most assuredly, he got
the worst of the bargain.

His shortest way back to the straight course, from which he had deviated
in making his purchase, led him into a by-street, near the flower and
fruit market of Covent Garden. Here he met with the second in number of
the circumstances which attended his walk. He found