"What! No entree, Lula? I had that sauce especially for you."
"Oh, Trixy, did you really? How sweet of you!" And her liquid eyes regarded, with an almost equal affection, first the master and then the dish. "I'll take a little," she said weakly; "it's so bad for my gout."
"What," asked Trixton Brent, flashing an amused glance at Honora, "are the symptoms of gout, Lula? I hear a great deal about that trouble these days, but it seems to affect every one differently."
Mrs. Chandos grew very red, but Warry Trowbridge saved her.
"It's a swelling," he said innocently.
Brent threw back his head and laughed.
"You haven't got it anyway, Warry," he cried.
Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier, maintained that he had.
"It's a pity you don't ride, Lula. I understand that that's one of the best preventives—for gout. I bought a horse last week that would just suit you—an ideal woman's horse. He's taken a couple of blue ribbons this summer."
"I hope you will show him to us, Mr. Brent," exclaimed Honora, in a spirit of kindness.