Sylvia sat down and gazed silently into the fire. "I dare say you don't know how dreadfully people kick when they've got gout," she remarked presently.
"Oh yes, I do," said Horace, sympathetically; "at least, I can guess."
"Especially when it's in both legs," continued Sylvia.
"Or," said Horace gently, "in all four."
"Ah, you do know!" cried Sylvia. "Then it's all the more horrid of you to come!"
"Dearest," said Horace, "is not this just the time when my place should be near you—and him?"
"Not near papa, Horace!" she put in anxiously; "it wouldn't be at all safe."
"Do you really think I have any fear for myself?"
"Are you sure you quite know—what he is like now?"
"I understand," said Horace, trying to put it as considerately as possible, "that a casual observer, who didn't know your father, might mistake him, at first sight, for—for some sort of quadruped."