“I will try to remember, sir,” answered Richard.
“Do; we shall get on the better.”
He was seized, as by the claw of a crab, with a sharp twinge of the gout. He caught at the back of a chair, hobbled with its help to the table, and so to his seat. Richard restrained himself and stood rigid. The baronet turned a half humorous, half reproachful look on him.
“That's right!” he said. “Never be officious. I wish my father had taught me as I am teaching you!—Ever had the gout, Mr. Wingfold?”
“Never, sir Wilton.”
“Then you ought every Sunday to say, 'Thank God that I have no gout!'”
“But if we thanked God for all the ills we don't have, there would be no time to thank him for any of the blessings we do have!”
“What blessings?”
“So many, I don't know where to begin to answer you.”
“Ah, yes! you're a clergyman! I forgot. It's your business to thank God. For my part, being a layman, I don't know anything in particular I've got to thank him for.”