little vascular change, the dropping, we will say, of a minute
spicule of bone from the inner table of his skull on to the surface of
his brain may have the effect of changing him to a filthy and pitiable
creature with every low and debasing tendency? What a satire an asylum
is upon the majesty of man, and no less upon the ethereal nature of the
soul."

"Faith and hope," murmurs the general practitioner.

"I have no faith, not much hope, and all the charity I can afford,"
says the surgeon. "When theology squares itself with the facts of life
I'll read it up."

"You were talking about cases," says the outsider, jerking the ink down
into his stylographic pen.

"Well, take a common complaint which kills many thousands every year,
like G. P. for instance."

"What's G. P.?"

"General practitioner," suggests the surgeon with a grin.

"The British public will have to know what G. P. is," says the
alienist gravely. "It's increasing by leaps and bounds, and it has the
distinction of being absolutely incurable. General paralysis is its
full title, and I tell you it promises to be a perfect scourge. Here's
a fairly typical case now which I saw last Monday week. A young
farmer, a splendid fellow, surprised his fellows by taking a very rosy
view of things at a time when the whole country-side was grumbling. He
was going to give up wheat, give up arable land, too, if it didn't pay,
plant two thousand acres of rhododendrons and get a monopoly of the
supply for Covent Garden--there was no end to his schemes, all sane
enough but just a bit inflated. I called at the farm, not to see him,
but on an altogether different matter. Something about the man's way
of talking struck me and I watched him narrowly. His lip had a trick
of quivering, his words slurred themselves together, and so did his
handwriting when he had occasion to draw up a small agreement. A
closer inspection showed me that one of his pupils was ever so little
larger than the other. As I left the house his wife came after me.
'Isn't it splendid to see Job looking so well, doctor,' said she; 'he's
that full of energy he can hardly keep himself quiet.' I did not say
anything, for I had not the heart, but I knew that the fellow was as
much condemned to death as though he were lying in the cell at Newgate.
It was a characteristic case of incipient G. P."

"Good heavens!" cries the outsider. "My own lips tremble. I often
slur my words. I believe I've got