The said Saunders was really an invaluable servant, and, with a world of
obsequiousness, contrived to have his own way on most occasions. He had,
I believe, only one great weakness, that of imagining a beau-ideal of
aristocracy and then outdoing it in the person of John Saunders.

Now this Saunders was human, and could not be eight years with this young
gentleman and not take some little interest in him. He was flunky, and
took a great interest in him, as stepping-stone to his own greatness. So
when he saw him turning pale and thin, and reading one letter fifty
times, he speculated and inquired what was the matter. He brought the
intellect of Mr. Saunders to bear on the question at the following angle:

"Now, if I was a young lord with 20,000 pounds a year, and all the world
at my feet, what would make me in this way? Why, the liver! Nothing else.

"And that is what is wrong with him, you may depend."

This conclusion arrived at, Mr. Saunders coolly wrote his convictions to
Dr. Aberford, and desired that gentleman's immediate attention to the
case. An hour or two later, he glided into his lord's room, not without
some secret trepidation, no trace of which appeared on his face. He
pulled a long histrionic countenance. "My lord," said he, in soft,
melancholy tones, "your lordship's melancholy state of health gives me
great anxiety; and, with many apologies to your lordship, the doctor is
sent for, my lord."

"Why, Saunders, you are mad; there is nothing the matter with me."

"I beg your lordship's pardon, your lordship is very ill, and Dr.
Aberford sent for."