I am recommended cod-liver oil, lung tonic, electric massage, abdominal belts, warm water, mud baths, Sandow's treatment, and every patent medicament save rat poison.

I am urged to go to health resorts ranging geographically from the top of the Jungfrau to Central Africa.
All kinds of worthy persons have offered to nurse me.

Old General Wynans writes me a four-page letter to assure me that I have only to go to his friend Dr.Eustace Adams, of Wimpole Street, to be cured like a shot.

I happen to know that Eustace Adams is an eminent gynecologist.
And the worst of it all is that these effusions written in the milk of human kindness have to be answered.

Dale is not here.