"At least we can refresh ourselves," sighed H.C., taking up a fine bunch
and offering me another, "Nectar in its primitive state; the drink of
the gods."
"And of Poets," I added.
"Talk not of poetry," he cried. "I feel that my vein has evaporated, and
after to-night will never return."
Very soon, you may be sure, the room was in darkness and repose.
"The inequalities of the earth's surface are nothing to my bed," groaned
H.C. as he laid himself down. "It is all hills and valleys. I think they
must have put the mattress upon all the brooms and brushes of the hotel,
crossed by all the fire-irons. And that wretched clock ticks on my brain
like a sledge-hammer. I shall not be alive by morning."
"Have you made your will?"
"Yes," he replied; "and left you my museum, my shooting-box, all my
unpublished MSS. and the care of my aesthetic aunt, Lady Maria. You will
not find her troublesome; she lives on crystallised violets and barley
water."
"Mixed blessings," I thought, but was too polite to say so. It must have
been my last thought, for I remembered no more until the clock awoke me,
striking four; and woke me again, striking six; after which sleep
finally fled.
Soon the town also awoke; doors slammed and echoed; omnibuses and other
vehicles rattled over the stones; voices seemed to fill the air; the
streets echoed with foot-passengers.
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