As may be easily expected, this very peculiar conduct had its effect upon his guests. The party was a dull one, and broke up early, every one remarking, that Mr. Wittingham tasted not one drop of all the many wines that circulated round his table.
When every one was gone, he rang the bell sharply, and told the servant to go for Mr. Slattery.
"Tell him to come directly, I do not feel well."
In ten minutes more the surgeon was in the house, felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, asked a few questions, and then said with a smile,
"A little fever!--a little fever! I will send you a cooling draught, and all will be quite right to-morrow, I dare say."
"Don't send me a draught," said Harry Wittingham, "I can't drink it."
"Oh, it shall be as good as wine," said Mr. Slattery.
"Good or bad, it does not matter," answered the young gentleman, staring somewhat wildly in his face; "I tell you I can't drink it--I drink not at all--I hate the very thought of drinking."
Another quick, short spasm crossed his countenance as he spoke; and Mr. Slattery, sitting down beside him with a somewhat dubious expression of countenance, hemmed for a moment or two, and then said,
"Why, what can one give you then? But tell me a little more of the symptoms you feel," and he put his hand upon the pulse again. "Have you any headache?"