e foreign dishes might not have agreed with him.
But--except that he is a little irritable this afternoon--he is much as
usual."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Horace, with reviving hope. "Do you
think he would see me for a moment?"

"Great heavens, no!" cried Mrs. Futvoye, with an irrepressible start; "I
mean," she explained, "that, after what took place last night,
Anthony--my husband--very properly feels that an interview would be too
painful."

"But when we parted he was perfectly friendly."

"I can only say," replied the courageous woman, "that you would find him
considerably altered now."

Horace had no difficulty in believing it.

"At least, I may see Sylvia?" he pleaded.

"No," said Mrs. Futvoye; "I really can't have Sylvia disturbed just now.
She is very busy, helping her father. Anthony has to read a paper at one
of his societies to-morrow night, and she is writing it out from his
dictation."

If any departure from strict truth can ever be excusable, this surely
was one; unfortunately, just then Sylvia herself burst into the room.

"Mother," she cried, without seeing Horace in her agitation, "do come
to papa, quick! He has just begun kicking again, and I can't manage him
alone.... Oh, _you_ here?" she broke off, as she saw who was in the
room. "Why do you come here now, Horace? Please, _please_ go away! Papa
is rather unwell--nothing serious, only--oh, _do_ go away!"

"Darling!" said Horace, going to her and taking both her hands, "I know
all--do you understand?--_all_!"

"Mamma!" cried Sylvia, reproachfully, "have you told him--already? When
we settled that even Horace wasn't to know till--till papa recovers!"

"I have told him nothing, my dear," replied her mother. "He can't
possibly know, unless--but no, that isn't possible. And, after all," she
added, with a warning glance at her daughter, "I don't know why we
should make any mystery about a mere attack of gout. But I had better go
and see if your father wants anything." And she hurried out of the room.

Sylvia sat down and gazed silently into the fire. "I dare say you don't
know how dreadfully people kick when they've got gout," she remarked
presently.

"Oh yes, I do," said Horace, sympathetically; "at least, I can guess."

"Especially when it's in both legs," continued Sylvia.

"Or," said Horace gently, "in all four."

"Ah, you _do_ know!" cried Sylvia. "Then it's all the more horrid of you
to come!"

"Dearest," said Horace, "is