That evening Dr. Twelves dined with a fellow Scot, J. Andrew McTavish, of McTavish & Brown. Mr. McTavish lived in Mecklenberg Square. Although a bachelor he liked plenty of house room, and in Mecklenberg Square he had it. His house was perhaps the largest in the Square, and certainly not the least comfortable. Comfort was to Mr. McTavish a sort of fetish: excepting money he set it above everything. He looked as if he did. Of medium height, he was of more than average size, his waist measurement was approaching a significant figure; his neck loved a generous collar, his chin overlapped; he had slight side whiskers, dark gray in hue, and the top of his head was so completely bald that one wondered if it could ever have been anything else. He and his guest presented an amazing contrast: three or four replicas of Dr. Twelves could have been contained in Mr. McTavish.
They dined tête-à-tête at a small round table which stood in the centre of a big room. Mr. McTavish liked big rooms; he was never comfortable in a small one. During the meal the conversation was of a desultory character, principally hovering around Pitmuir, where Mr. McTavish had lived till he came to London. Questions were asked and answered touching every soul in the parish Mr. McTavish could think of, and his memory was extensive. There was hardly a man, woman or child about Pitmuir whose name had not been mentioned before dinner was finished. If the inquiries were slightly acid, so were the replies. It seemed as if these two gentlemen had made it a point of honour to say nothing nice of any one. According to them the folk about Pitmuir were a very human lot--at least they had most of humanity's failings.
After dinner they retired to the study, another fine apartment. There they had a cup of coffee, a liqueur, and a cigar apiece. The doctor seemed lost in the huge chair which he had been invited to fill. His host regarded him with twinkling eyes.
"Have you had a good dinner, David?"
"You feed yourself too well; you're a hundred years behind the age."
"How do you show it?"
"Our great-grandfathers pampered their bellies. We know better; we have learnt that it is the part of wisdom to starve them. You're still where our grandsires were."
"And where are you?"
"I'm on the high road to as fine an attack of indigestion as a man need have, and live."
"I can give you the name of one of the greatest authorities on indigestion."