"Diet, sir; Diet, decidedly. Now you'll take this to John Bell's, in Oxford Street, and they'll make up the prescription; then you'll go on to Gilbey's--crooked-looking place, you know; just as if they'd built the house somewhere else, and then when they wanted to put it in its place found it too big, and had to squeeze it in. Well, there you'll order a few dozens of their light dinner claret. No more '20 port or fiery sherry. Taboo, sir, taboo. Light wine in moderation. Diet, sir, diet. _Good_ morning." I looked at the bristly-headed physician, who handed me a sheet of note paper with a big capital B, two long blurs, a rough blotch, a few spidery ink splays, and an ugly MD at the end of a few inky hooks-and-eyes, which I received in return for the twenty-one shillings I left upon the table; and then muttering the one word "diet," I stood in the hall upon a horrible stony-looking piece of floorcloth that quite struck cold up my legs. Here I was confronted by the footman who ushered me into his master's presence--a blue-coated, crestless-buttoned wretch with two round grey eyes that said "shillings" as plainly as any mute thing could; but I was angry, and determined to come no more: so giving the fellow only a sixpence, I hobbled away and stood in Saville Row. Diet, indeed; why no man could be more moderate. And what's half a bottle of port for one's dinner? Why, my grandfather, sir, took his two bottles regularly, and, beyond an occasional fit of the gout, was as hale a man as ever lived. Why, he'd have lived till fourscore safe if bad management and country doctors had not drawn the regal complaint into his stomach, where it would stop. This was coming to a physician for advice. And then what did he do when I told him of the agonies I suffered?--smiled pleasantly, and said it was my liver; while when I hinted at my corns, what did he do then but metaphorically tread upon them, for he laughed.