Beatrix in a moment more came running up in consternation.
"How do you feel now, papa? Gout, is it not?" she asked, having obtained leave to come in; "not very bad, I hope."
The Baronet smiled with an effort.
"Gout's never very pleasant, a hot thumb-screw on one's toe, my dear, but that's all; it will be nothing. Pratt's coming, and he'll get me right in a day or two—only the great toe. I beg pardon for naming it so often—very waspish though, that's all. Don't stay away, or the people will fancy something serious; and possibly I may be down, in a slipper though, to dinner. So run down, Trixie, darling."
And Trixie, with the same lingering look that Dives had cast on him, only more anxious, betook herself to the parlour as he had desired.
In a little while Doctor Pratt had arrived. As he toddled through the hall he encountered the Rev. Dives on his way to the breakfast-parlour. Pratt had suffered some rough handling and damage at the hands of Time, and Dives was nothing the better of the sarcastic manipulations of the same ancient god, since they had last met. Still they instantly recognised, and shook hands cordially, and when the salutation was over—
"Well, and what's wrong with the Baronet?"
"Gout; he drinks two glasses of port, I've observed, at dinner, and it always disagrees with him. Pray do stop it—the port, I mean."
"Hand or foot?"
"The great toe—the best place, isn't it?"