“Or have a cushion to your back—”
“Or a cup of tea—”
“Or wine—”
“Or sal-volatile—”
“Shall I bathe your head with eau de Cologne?”
“Would you put up your feet on a chair?”
The victim had apparently been too much engrossed in his own self-pity to take any notice of the separate suggestions, but now their reiteration had an irritating effect, for with startling unexpectedness he thrust forward his big, flushed face, and shouted a loud refusal.
“No, no, no, no! Do you want to kill me at once? I only want rest and a chance to get my breath again. Tea? Wine? Faugh! I hope I know better than that after the agonies I have had to go through. Sal-volatile! Do you take me for an hysterical old woman? Feet up? Ay, young sir, I expect I shall have a longer dose of that position than I care for after this adventure! As if I had not had enough of it already—five weeks on my chair in the summer, three in the spring, two months last winter.”
From his own account he was evidently a great sufferer, yet in appearance he was stout and healthy enough. Jack made a swift diagnosis, and said politely—
“Gout, I suppose, sir? Gout in your feet?”