Richard alone was decently kind to Hippias; whether from opposition, or real affection, could not be said, as the young man was mysterious.  He advised his uncle to take exercise, walked with him, cultivated cheerful impressions in him, and pointed out innocent pursuits.  He made Hippias visit with him some of the poor old folk of the village, who bewailed the loss of his cousin Austin Wentworth, and did his best to waken him up, and give the outer world a stronger hold on him.  He succeeded in nothing but in winning his uncle’s gratitude.  The season bloomed scarce longer than a week for Hippias, and then began to languish.  The poor Dyspepsy’s eager grasp at beatification relaxed:  he went underground again.  He announced that he felt “spongy things”—­one of the more constant throes of his malady.  His bitter face recurred:  he chewed the cud of horrid hallucinations.  He told Richard he must give up going about with him:  people telling of their ailments made him so uncomfortable—­the birds were so noisy, pairing—­the rude bare soil sickened him.

Richard treated him with a gravity equal to his father’s.  He asked what the doctors said.

“Oh! the doctors!” cried Hippias with vehement scepticism.  “No man of sense believes in medicine for chronic disorder.  Do you happen to have heard of any new remedy then, Richard?  No?  They advertise a great many cures for indigestion, I assure you, my dear boy.  I wonder whether one can rely upon the authenticity of those signatures?  I see no reason why there should be no cure for such a disease?—­Eh?  And it’s just one of the things a quack, as they call them, would hit upon sooner than one who is in the beaten track.  Do you know, Richard, my dear boy, I’ve often thought that if we could by any means appropriate to our use some of the extraordinary digestive power that a boa constrictor has in his gastric juices, there is really no manner of reason why we should not comfortably dispose of as much of an ox as our stomachs will hold, and one might eat French dishes without the wretchedness of thinking what’s to follow.  And this makes me think that those fellows may, after all, have got some truth in them:  some secret that, of course, they require to be paid for.  We distrust each other in this world too much, Richard.  I’ve felt inclined once or twice—­but it’s absurd!—­If it only alleviated a few of my sufferings I should be satisfied.  I’ve no hesitation in saying that I should be quite satisfied if it only did away with one or two, and left me free to eat and drink as other people do.  Not that I mean to try them.  It’s only a fancy—­Eh?  What a thing health is, my dear boy!  Ah! if I were like you!  I was in love once!”

“Were you!” said Richard, coolly regarding him.

“I’ve forgotten what I felt!” Hippias sighed.  “You’ve very much improved, my dear boy.”

“So people say,” quoth Richard.

Hippias looked at him anxiously:  “If I go to town and get the doctor’s opinion about trying a new course—­Eh, Richard? will you come with me?  I should like your company.  We could see London together, you know.  Enjoy ourselves,” and Hippias rubbed his hands.