I could not awake on the day after the fête, I was conscious that Nixon was making a considerable noise,—that he shut and opened doors and windows, splashed the water into my bath, and threw down my boots with an unwonted energy; but through all this consciousness of disturbance I slept on, and was determined to sleep, let him make what uproar he pleased.
“It 's nigh two o'clock, sir!” whispered he in my ear, and I replied by a snort.
“I 'm very sorry to be troublesome, sir; but the master is very impatient: he was getting angry when I went in last time.”
These words served to dispel my drowsiness at once, and the mere thought of my father's displeasure acted on me like a strong stimulant.
“Does papa want me?” cried I, sitting up in bed; “did you say papa wanted me?”
“Yes, sir,” said a deep voice; and my father entered the room, dressed for the street, and with his hat on.
“You may leave us,” said he to Nixon; and as the man withdrew, my father took a chair and sat down close to my bedside.
“I have sent three messages to you this morning,” said he, gravely, “and am forced at last to come myself.”
I was beginning my apologies, when he stopped me, and said, “That will do; I have no wish to be told why you overslept yourself; indeed, I have already heard more on that score than I care for.”
He paused, and though perhaps he expected me to say something, I was too much terrified to speak.