They were in the drawing-room as usual, and the squire, looking more wrinkled and worn than ever, was seated in his arm-chair, while the artist dexterously put a line here and there on the painted face before him.
"You don't seem well this morning, Mr. Garsworth," said Beaumont, as the old man moved wearily in his chair.
"No, sir, I don't," retorted the squire in his harsh voice. "I don't expect I'll leave my bed again when I once go back to it."
"Oh, things are surely not so bad as that."
"I'm afraid they are," replied Garsworth, shaking his head. "I am anxious to go into a new body and leave this worn-out frame with its incessant pain."
"Are you in pain now?" asked Beaumont, sympathetically.
"Yes--I have a bad attack of neuralgia--the east wind always affects me more or less that way."
"I think I could do you some good."
"Nonsense--you're not a doctor?"
"I am not the rose, but I've lived near it, my dear sir," said Beaumont equably, "and I know something of therapeutics."