The dinner-party was at the great Physician’s. Bar was there, and in full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most engaging state. Few ways of life were hidden from Physician, and he was oftener in its darkest places than even Bishop¹. There were brilliant ladies about London who perfectly² doted on him, my dear, as the most charming creature and the most delightful³ person, who would have been shocked to find themselves so close to him if they could have known on what sights those thoughtful eyes of his had rested within an hour or two, and near to whose beds, and under what roofs, his composed figure had stood. But Physician was a composed man, who performed neither on his own trumpet⁴, nor on the trumpets⁵ of other people. Many wonderful things did he see and hear, and much irreconcilable⁶ moral contradiction did he pass his life among; yet his equality of compassion⁷ was no more disturbed than the Divine Master’s of all healing was. He went, like the rain, among the just and unjust, doing all the good he could, and neither proclaiming it in the synagogues nor at the corner of streets.