"Lord Osborne seldom entertains me with accounts of his sports, whether defeated or victorious," replied Mr. Howard, coolly.
"When you have the gout in your foot even twice as bad as I have," observed Mr. Watson, "it will be consolatory to you to remember that you could once beat Lord Osborne at Fives."
"Aye sir, I dare say I shall have my turn by-and-bye, I expect to have it early—Osborne tells me his father had it at five-and-twenty. It's an aristocratic complaint."
"Unless you have reason to suppose the late Lord Osborne was your father likewise," resumed Mr. Watson drily, "I don't see what either his gout or his aristocracy have to do with you."
"Do you feel any symptoms already?" whispered Margaret; "you really ought to take care of yourself—who would be so much missed if you were laid up with that dreadful disorder! and who would you get to nurse you in your hours of suffering?"
"Oh I'll take care of myself, Miss Margaret," said he pointedly; "gout makes one a prisoner, which is bad—I hate all confinement, and bonds of every kind, especially fire-side bonds: freedom for me—freedom at home and abroad—perfect freedom. By the bye, Howard," continued he, breaking in upon a very agreeable conversation which that gentleman was carrying on aside with Emma, "I knew you were here when I came in, by that curious vehicle standing at the door. Positively it must have belonged to your great grandfather—nobody more modern could have built such a conveyance!"
"One thing is certain," said Mr. Watson, "Mr. Howard had a great grandfather to whom it might have belonged—it is more than every one can say!"
Tom rather winced at this observation, for as it was known, to those who possessed good memories, that his grandfather had ridden about the country on a donkey, whilst carrying on the lucrative business of a rag-merchant, it was no very great stretch of the imagination to conclude that his more remote ancestor had been equally humble in his means of travelling.
"Perhaps it is not the most elegant conveyance in the world," replied its owner good-humouredly; "but it carries us very safely, and the most fashionable curricle would do no more."
"Upon my word I must beg to have the refusal of it, if you can be tempted to part with it, Howard, and I will send it to a museum somewhere, labelled the car of Cybele; I protest it puts me in mind of an old print of that machine, which belonged to an aunt of mine."