"Delirious trimmings, sir."
"I've not had that—I don't think I ever will have it; drink is death to me. I hope these drops will do me good. Give me the water, please. Ah, there that's right. Now!"
He drank off the mixture slowly, with the air of a connoisseur, and gave the empty glass to the servant.
"Not much taste, Gimp. No; I've tasted nastier. Put the glass away, please. Have you heard how Miss Marson is to-day?"
"Just the same, sir. Delirious."
"Ah! how terrible! I wonder if those drops would do her good?"
"I think not, sir," said Gimp, drifting towards the door; "it's 'er 'ead, ain't it, sir, not drink?"
"Yes, yes! You're quite right, Gimp. I must go over and see her again; and the day's so damp. Oh, dear, dear! Close the door, please, there's such a draught."
Gimp did as he was told, and retreated noiselessly from the room, after which Mr. Spolger went over all his ailments in his own mind to make sure that he had forgotten none of them, examined his tongue in the mirror, felt his pulse carefully, and having thus ministered to his own selfishness, gave a thought to the lady he was engaged to.
"Poor Florry!" he moaned thoughtfully, "how she must have loved that man, and he wasn't healthy. I'm sure there was consumption in his family. I wonder if she loves me as much. Ah, that faint was such a shock to my nerves; so unexpected. I'd had pins and needles in the left leg. That is the first sign of paralysis. Oh, I do hope I'm not going to get paralysis."