"Just so, just so. Call it bunions, Mr. Slocombe, if you please. Ha, ha! a capital joke, that; but gout is a shorter word to say, and a truer one; don't waste too much breath or too many syllables over your ailments."
I was beginning to hate the pleasant laugh that made so light of my distresses, and I asked rather stiffly:
"What do you prescribe, Sir Percival?"
"Been abroad much? No? That's right. Change of air and scene will do you infinite good, cheer up your spirits, and give you something fresh to think about. Let me see, Salzbrun, I think, will be the thing for you; charming place, very lively. Put yourself under the care of my good friend Dr. Trinkwasser; he will regulate your use of the mineral waters, and in six weeks they will make another man of you. No more gout then, sir. I'll write you a little prescription for present use." (Scribble, scribble, scribble, went the long-tailed goose-quill.) "There, sir, that note explains to Dr. Trinkwasser all that I need tell him. Start this week, if possible; bon voyage! Good-day; thank you, much obliged. Good-morning." And leaving a neatly-papered fee in the white hand that shook mine, I quitted the doctor's presence to think over the advice he had given me.
Presently I hailed a passing cab, and told the man to drive to my brother Herbert's address. Herbert is a clergyman, and is wearing out his life and strength in an East-end parish, where his wife and children lead lives scarcely less busy than his own. Very few of the party were at home on this occasion; only half a dozen, including the father and mother, sat down to the early dinner which supplied me with lunch; but the sight of so many cheerful faces round the table was a pleasant change from my usual solitary meals. Herbert is many years younger than I am; but he married early, and the eldest of his ten children is a bright, merry-looking girl of eighteen, Emmie by name. She is, more-over, my god-child, and is rather a favorite of mine, because I see no foolish, nonsensical young ladyism about her. She does not disfigure herself with a fuzz of hair dangling over her eyes, but has nice sensible shining locks, which always look clean and well-brushed. She was paler than usual to-day, and there was listlessness in her manner such as I had never seen before in buoyant Emmie. I could not help remarking upon it to her mother when she was out of the room; and Miriam sighed and looked a little anxious as she answered:
"I do not think Emmie is very well, Adolphus. She had a heavy influenza cold in the spring, just after we had all been afflicted with mumps, and she has never been quite herself since. The doctor calls it lassitude and want of tone."
"And what does he do for her?"
"He has prescribed a tonic, which she is taking regularly; but what she really wants, he says, is a thorough change of air and scene, and that, you know, we cannot give her until we take our holiday August. She is a dear good girl, and when she is at home she will work, in hope of giving me less to do, I believe;" and here Miriam's eyes began to glisten as she looked at me.
"You might have sent her down to me," I growled; and then a thought struck me. Why should not Emmie go to Salzbrun? it would be the very thing for her, and not at all unpleasant for me to have a fresh young fellow-traveler to enjoy the sights and help me through the inevitable discomforts. Perhaps, too, Emmie's education having been so much more recently polished than my own, her powers of French conversation might be in better working order than mine, which, if not exactly the worse for wear, had certainly grown somewhat rusty from lying idle all these years; nay, more, it was possible that Emmie might have learnt German. That decided me.
"Miriam," I said, "will you let me take the child with me to Salzbrun next week? Of course, you should have no expense about the trip, and I think that she and I could be very jolly together for a couple of months or so."