He was seated in an arm-chair, with his right foot wrapped in flannels and resting upon a stool in front of him, in orthodox gout style. He was a man apparently of about fifty years of age, in a state of excellent preservation. His head was partially bald, his brow smooth, his cheeks rounded and a little florid, with whiskers on each side of his face, and smooth-shaven chin. There was a pleasant smile on his face, which seemed natural to that smooth and rosy countenance; and this, together with a general tendency to corpulency, which was rather becoming to the man, and the gouty foot, all served to suggest high living and self-indulgence. “I really feel ashamed of myself, Miss--ah--Plympton,” said Sir Lionel, “for giving you so much trouble; but gout, you know, my dear madam, is not to be trifled with; and I assure you if it had been any one else I should have declined seeing them. But of course I could not refuse to see you, and the only way I could have that pleasure was by begging you to come here. The mountain could not come to Mohammed, and so Mohammed, you know--eh? Ha, ha, ha!” The baronet had a cheery voice, rich and mellow, and his laugh was ringing and musical. His courtesy, his pleasant smile, his genial air, and his hearty voice and laugh, all filled Miss Plympton with sincere delight, and she felt that this man could do nothing else than take up Edith's cause with the utmost ardor. After a few apologies for troubling him, which Sir Lionel turned aside by protesting that apologies were only due from himself to her, Miss Plympton began to state the object of her visit. “In the first place, Sir Lionel,” said she, “I take it for granted that you have heard of the death of Frederick Dalton, Esquire, in Van Diemen's Land.” The smile on the baronet's face died out at this, and his eyes fixed themselves upon Miss Plympton's face with quick and eager curiosity. Then he turned his face aside. A table stood on his right, with some wine and glasses within reach. “Excuse me,” said he; “I beg ten thousand pardons; but _won't_ you take a glass of wine? No!” he continued, as Miss Plympton politely declined; “really I think you had better.” And then, pouring out a glass, he sipped it, and looked at her once more. “Poor Dalton!” said he, with a sigh. “Yes, of course, I saw it in the papers. A most melancholy affair. Poor Dalton! Let me inform you, madam, that he was more sinned against than sinning.” Sir Lionel sighed. “Oh, Sir Lionel,” exclaimed Miss Plympton, earnestly, “how it rejoices my heart to hear you say that! For my part, I never, never had one single doubt of his perfect innocence.” “Nor had I,” said Sir Lionel, firmly, pouring out another glass of wine. “It was excessively unfortunate. Had I not myself been in--in--ah--affliction at the time, I might have done something to help him.” “Oh, Sir Lionel, I'm sure you would!”