SIR William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up with rugs, and his foot on a stool, looked as little like a bridegroom as need be. He was suffering severely from gout, and in all the irritable excitement of that painful malady.
A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, littered as it was with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small hand-bell. On the carpet around him lay the newspapers and reviews, newly arrived, but all indignantly thrown aside, uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his sufferings to waste a thought upon the interests of the world.
“Not come in yet, Fenton?” cried he, angrily, to his servant. “I 'm certain you 're mistaken; go and inquire of her maid.”
“I have just asked mamselle, sir, and she says her mistress is still out driving.”
“Give me my colchicum; no, the other bottle,—that small phial. But you can't drop them. There, leave it down, and send Miss Leslie here.”
“She is at the Gallery, sir.”
“Of course she is,” muttered he, angrily, below his breath; “gadding, like the rest. Is there no one can measure out my medicine? Where's Miss Clara?”
“She's in the drawing-room, sir.”
“Send her here; beg her to do me the favor,” cried he, subduing the irritation of his manner, as he wiped his forehead, and tried to seem calm and collected.
“Did you want me, grandpapa?” said the young girl, entering, and addressing him by the title she had one day given him in sportiveness, and which he liked to be called by.