"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"Yes," he replied; "and left you my museum, my shooting-box, all my unpublished MSS.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 æsthetic 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. The sun was shining gloriously and we threw open the windows to the new day and the fresh breeze, and took our first look at Morlaix by daylight. Already we felt braced and exhilarated as we took in deep draughts of oxygen.