I was followed by my noble hostess (womewhat more, be it understood, than a middle-aged lady), who gravely sate down, and, bidding me take off my cravat, like Thomson's Musidora—"...from her leg the inverted worsted drew"— pinned it scientifically round my throat, with the comfortable assurance that it would be "no sort of good" unless applied warm from the foot. The kind lady had hardly left, when —unthankful wretch that I was!—I unpinned the pedality, and next morning restored it with my best acknowledgments of its anti-pertussian efficacy.