TIME WAS FLEETING -- days, weeks, and months -- and I was getting nowhere. In the first flush of my enthusiasm I had promised my darling wife -- although now I did not use this term of endearment when her efforts at Welsh cooking made me dose myself with bicarbonate of soda and groan that she was slowly poisoning me -- I had promised her, I repeated, riches, position, a house in Harley Street, and, if I recollect correctly, a villa on the Mediterranean. And here we still were, plodding along, trying to save a little money -- a depressing state of affairs under any circumstances -- never "getting out of the bit," as the Scots say, still buried alive in these wretched mountains. I chafed, used many strong words, and applied for many situations, all without avail. Then, one memorable day, I burst in with a letter.
"We're leaving. At the end of the month."
My partner in distress gazed back at me, wide-eyed.
"Leaving! But I'm just getting to like it here."
Was there ever so perverse a woman, trying to convince me that she had nobly settled down? I restrained myself.
You'll like it better where we're going. It's a much finer job."
I handed her the letter. It was from the secretary of the Medical Aid Society in a neiglibouring valley of Tredegar, offering me a post as doctor to the society. The salary was only slightly more than I was now being paid, but what caught the eye and made the pulse bound was the fact that a house -- a real house -- was included in the