Our host provided candles for each of his guests, and bidding them all "good-night," gave a yawn, and followed the example of the rest.
CHAPTER V.
The Headless Lady.—The Artist's First Story.
The morning following the saturnalia was cold and bleak. Without it was snowing hard, and the windows of the old inn were covered with frost crystals. Breakfast was late, few of the members of the club having yet risen, apparently not yet recovered from the effects of the previous evening.
The landlord exerted himself to make the interior of his inn as cheerful as the gloomy state of the weather would permit. A large log crackled on the hearth, and the breakfast table teemed with all the delicacies that the inn could boast of; coffee, toast, hot rolls, eggs and bacon, ham, chicken, tongue, and fresh butter. One by one the guests made their appearance. They seemed to have slept well, for they looked none the worse for their last night's carousal.
The last to enter the breakfast room was our fresh arrival, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp. He presented a very different appearance to any of the rest. He was pale and haggard, and his hair hung disordered over his eyes.
"I'm afraid you have not slept well, Mr. McGuilp," said Mr. Oldstone. "What is the matter? It surely can't be the punch, for you drank less than any of us last night. Why, I don't believe you drank more than a couple of glasses the whole time; but perhaps you are not accustomed to these orgies, and a little upsets you. Look at us—seasoned old casks all of us—we are as jolly as ever. As for myself, I never felt better in all my life."
"Oh, it is not that," replied our artist; "but I feel somehow I passed an indifferent night."