males, of course, invalids—­but, as we have said, there were a good number of the surrounding gentry, their wives and daughters, so that the fete was expected to come off with great eclat.  Topertoe was dressed, as was then the custom, in full canonical costume, with, his silk cassock and bands, for he was a doctor of divinity; and Manifold was habited in the usual dress of the day—­his falling collar exhibiting a neck whose thickness took away all surprise as to his tendency to apoplexy.  The lengthy figure of the unsubstantial Pythagorean was cased in linen garments, almost snow-white, through which his anatomy might be read as distinctly as if his living skeleton was naked before them.  Mrs. Rosebud was blooming and expanded into full flower, whilst Miss Rosebud was just in that interesting state when the leaves are apparently in the act of bursting out and bestowing their beauty and fragrance on the gratified senses of the beholder.  Dr. Doolittle, who was a regular wag—­indeed too much so ever to succeed in his profession—­entered the room with his three-cocked hat under his arm, and the usual gold-headed cane in his hand; and, after saluting the company, looked about after Manifold, his patient.  He saluted the Pythagorean, and complimented him upon his philosophy, and the healthful habits engendered by a vegetable diet, and so primitive a linen dress—­a dress, he said, which, in addition to its other advantages, ought to be generally adopted, if only for the sake of its capacity for showing off the symmetry of the figure.  He was himself a warm admirer of the principle, and begged to have the honor of shaking hands with the gentleman who had the courage to carry it out against all the prejudices of a besotted world.  He accordingly seized the philosopher’s hand, which was then in a desperately rheumatic state, as the little scoundrel well knew, and gave it such a squeeze of respect and admiration that the Pythagorean emitted a yell which astonished and alarmed the whole room.

“Death and torture, sir—­why did you squeeze my rheumatic hand in such a manner?”

“Pardon me, Mr. Cooke—­respect and admiration for your principles.”

“Well, sir, I will thank you to express what you may feel in plain language, but not in such damnable squeezes as that.”

“Pardon me, again, sir; I was ignorant that the rheumatism was in your hand; you know I am not your physician; perhaps if I were you could bear a friendly shake of it without all that agony.  I very much regret the pain I unconsciously, and from motives of the highest respect, have put you to.”

“It is gone—­do not mention it,” said the benevolent philosopher.  “Perhaps I may try your skill some of these days.”

“I assure you, sir,” said Doolittle, “that I am forcing Mr. Manifold here to avail himself of your system—­a simple vegetable diet.”

“O Lord!” exclaimed Manifold, in a soliloquy—­for he was perfectly unconscious of what was going on—­“toast and water, toast and water!  That and a season of famine—­what a prospect is before me!  Doolittle is a rat, and I will hire somebody to give him ratsbane.  Nothing but a vegetable diet, and be hanged to him!  What’s ratsbane an ounce?”