The Berthellot Institute then occupied the site of the old Hendon Aerodrome, which has since been utilized as a library for the official documents relating to the Great War. One did not lodge there, but spent most of the day there in “classes” of self-suggestion: a class would consist of fifty or sixty people all herded together in the same lecture-room. The simplest exercise, which you ordinarily started on, consisted of shouting “Health, health, health! Glorious health!” in chorus. Juliet Savage, who came with me to watch one of these classes, said it was all she could do to refrain from shouting “Beer, beer, glorious beer” (an old chorus which she had picked up from an uncle when young) to see if she were detected or not amidst the general din. But there were more advanced exercises: I remember, for example, a sort of skittle-alley where you threw a large ball at a set of nine-pins, ejaculating “Better that time!” with every throw; it was said to be highly restorative. And then there was the ball-room, where you danced the Health-dance, and the gymnasium, where you did a sort of patent Indian clubs, and much more that I have forgotten. Mr. Druce, the Superintendent, was a brisk, rather oppressive sort of man who positively oozed health: when I was shown into his room he greeted me with the words, “Ha! Another of our malingerers! Isn’t it almost time you gave up swinging the lead? Come now, you know there’s nothing to be gained by it!” I replied that I was subject to headaches; that I had come there that morning with a headache, which was, indeed, somewhat worse after listening to the Health-chorus. He came up to me, put his hands on both sides of my head, and said, “What, that thing! Aching!” Then he rang a bell, and said to the attendant who appeared, “Oh, Miss Sonnenschein, do come here! This young lady thinks her head is aching!” To which Miss Sonnenschein, a rather gloomy lady to whom the whole thing clearly came in the way of business, said in an unconvincing voice, “That’s a good ’un!” I asked, somewhat timidly, what happened to you if the treatment did not have a curative effect. Did the failures go out feeling exactly as ill as they did when they came in, or was it sometimes found that the treatment had been actually prejudicial? “Failures?” said Mr. Druce, “my dear madam, there _are_ no failures.” “Do you mean,” I said, “that you are quite certain I shall go out of this place cured?” “Certain? Miss Sonnenschein, kindly explain to this young lady the sort of certainty which I feel about her recovery.” To which Miss Sonnenschein, who was chewing, replied “Sure thing!” I then asked whether in the event of my proving a failure the Institute would be prepared to refund my fees, but Mr. Druce simply repeated that there were no failures.