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“I’ve slaved for five years, and I’ve never broken down before.”

“Well, you have now. Go away at once. Take a holiday. You’ll work like Shakespeare and Michelangelo after it.”

“But I can’t—that’s just it. It’s those stories for the Monthly Multitude; I’m doing a series. I’m behind now: and if I don’t get it done this week, they’ll stop the series. It’s what I’ve been working for all these years. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had, and it’s come now, when I can’t do it. Your father’s a doctor: isn’t there any medicine you can take to make your head more like a head and less like a suet pudding?”

“Look here,” said Milly, “I really came in to ask you to come away with us at Whitsuntide; but you ought to go away now. Just go to our cottage at Lymchurch. There’s a dear old girl in the village—Mrs Beale—she’ll look after you. It’s a glorious place for work. Father did reams down there. You’ll do your stuff there right enough. This is only Monday. Go to-morrow.”

“Did he? I will. Oh yes, I will. I’ll go to-night, if there’s a train.”

“No, you don’t, my dear lunatic. You