Mr. Palmer half smiled, felt for his snuff-box, and then replied, “I am sure I should like to live in England, if my health would let me; but,” continued he, his face growing longer, and taking the hypochondriac cast as he pronounced the word, “_but, _Mr. Walsingham, you don’t consider that my health is really--really--” “Really very good, I see,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham, “and I am heartily glad to see it.” “Sir! sir! you do not see it, I assure you. I have a great opinion of your judgment, but as you are not a physician--” “And because I have not taken out my diploma, you think I can neither see nor understand,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham. “But, nevertheless, give me leave to feel your pulse.” “Do you really understand a pulse?” said Mr. Palmer, baring his wrist, and sighing. “As good a pulse as ever man had,” pronounced Mr. Walsingham. “You don’t say so? why the physicians tell me--” “Never mind what they tell you--if they told you the _truth_, they’d tell you they want fees.” Mrs. Beaumont, quite startled by the tremendously loud voice in which Mr. Walsingham pronounced the word _truth_, rose, and rang the bell for her carriage. “Mr. Palmer,” said she, “I am afraid we must run away, for I dread the night air for invalids.” “My good madam, I am at your orders,” answered Mr. Palmer, buttoning himself up to the chin. “Mrs. Beaumont, surely you don’t think this gentleman an invalid?” said Mr. Walsingham. “I only wish he would not think himself such,” replied Mrs. Beaumont. “Ah! my dear friends,” said Mr. Palmer, “I really am, I certainly am a sad--sad--” “Hypochondriac,” said Mr. Walsingham. “Pardon me--you are indeed, and every body is afraid to tell you so but myself.” Mrs. Beaumont anxiously looked out of the window to see if her carriage was come to the door. “Hypochondriac! not in the least, my dear sir,” said Mr. Palmer. “If you were to hear what Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- say of my case, and your own Dr. Wheeler here, who has a great reputation too--shall I tell you what he says?” In a low voice, Mr. Palmer, holding Mr. Walsingham by the button, proceeded to recapitulate some of Dr. Wheeler’s prognostics; and at every pause, Mr. Walsingham turned impatiently, so as almost to twist off the detaining button, repeating, in the words of the king of Prussia to his physician, “_C’est un âne! C’est un âne! C’est un âne!_”--“Pshaw! I don’t understand French,” cried Mr. Palmer, angrily. His warmth obliged him to think of unbuttoning his coat, which operation (after stretching his neckcloth to remove an uneasy feeling in his throat) he was commencing, when Mrs. Beaumont graciously stopped his hand. “The carriage is at the door, my dear sir:--instead of unbuttoning your coat, had not you better put this cambric handkerchief round your throat before we go into the cold air?”