''
``What you want,'' said the friend, ``is an Unrest-cure.''
``An Unrest-cure? I've never heard of such a thing.''
``You've heard of Rest-cures for people who've broken down
under stress of too much worry and strenuous living; well,
you're suffering from overmuch repose and placidity, and you
need the opposite kind of treatment.''
``But where would one go for such a thing?''
``Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for
Kilkenny, or do a course of district visiting in one of the
Apache quarters of Paris, or give lectures in Berlin to
prove that most of Wagner's music was written by Gambetta;
and there's always the interior of Morocco to travel in.
But, to be really effective, the Unrest-cure ought to be
tried in the home. How you would do it I haven't the
faintest idea.''
It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis
became galvanized into alert attention. After all, his two
days' visit to an elderly relative at Slowborough did not
promise much excitement. Before the train had stopped he
had decorated his sinister shirt-cuff with the inscription,
``J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough.
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