Between Kester St. George and the fashionable doctor there were not many points in common. Their orbits of motion were diametrically opposed to each other, and, as a rule, were far apart. One bond of sympathy there was, however, between them: they were both splendid whist-players. At the club table they had sat in opposition, or as partners, many a time and oft, and each respected the other’s prowess, while thinking his own style of play incomparably superior. “Not seen you here for some time,” said the doctor, as Kester held out his hand. “No, I only got back the other day from Baden and Homburg. Went for three months, but came back at the end of six weeks. One gets weary of the perpetual glitter and frivolity of those places: at least, I do. Besides which, I was a little hipped—a little bit out of sorts, I suppose—and so I seemed naturally to gravitate towards home again.” “Out of sorts, eh?” said Bolus, fixing him with his keen professional look. “What’s amiss with you? Been punting too much, or backed the St. Leger favourite too heavily?” and he took St. George’s wrist between his thumb and finger. “Neither one nor the other,” said Kester, with a little hollow laugh. “I seem to be getting out of repair generally. Some little cog or wheel inside won’t act properly, I suppose, and so the whole machine is getting out of gear.” “So long as we keep the mainspring right there’s not much to be afraid of,” said Bolus with his expansive professional smile, which was as stereotyped and fictitious as professional smiles, whether of ballet-girls or doctors, always are. “Your pulse is certainly not what it ought to be,” went on Bolus, in his airy, graceful way, as though he were imparting a piece of information of the pleasantest kind; “but then how seldom one’s pulse is what it ought to be. Do you ever experience any little irregularity in the action of the heart?” “Yes, frequently. Sometimes it seems to stop beating for a second or two.” “Yes yes—just so,” said Bolus, soothingly. “And you find yourself getting out of breath more quickly than you used to do, especially when you walk a little faster than ordinary, or have to climb a number of stairs?” “Yes, a little thing nowadays puts me out of puff.” “Precisely so. We are none of us so young as we were twenty years ago. And you sometimes feel as if you wanted an extra pillow under your head at night?” “How the deuce do you know that?” said Kester, with a puzzled look. Bolus laughed his little dry laugh, and began to air his palms again. “And you have a troublesome little cough, and now and then your head aches without your being able to assign a cause why it should do so; and frequently in the night you start up in your sleep from some feeling of agitation or alarm—causeless, of course, but very real just for the moment?” “By Jove, doctor, you read me like a book!” “Did you think of going down to Doncaster this year?” asked Bolus, as he wheeled suddenly round on Kester.