“A little,” I answered. “Bring me a whisky and soda to the library.”
And the man at once disappeared to do my bidding. “I suppose he think’s I’m mad,” I remarked. “This is a very remarkable ménage, to say the least.”
In the great hall, as I walked towards the library, was a long mirror, and in passing I caught sight of my own figure in it. I stopped, and with a loud cry of wonder and dismay stood before it, glaring at my own reflection.
The bandages about my head gave me a terribly invalid appearance, but reflected by that glass I saw a sight which struck me dumb with amazement. I could not believe my eyes; the thing staggered belief.
On the morning before I had shaved as usual, but the glass showed that I now wore a well cut, nicely reddish-brown beard!
My face seemed to have changed curiously. I presented an older appearance than on the day before. My hair seemed to have lost its youthful lustre, and upon my brow were three distinct lines—the lines of care.
I felt my beard with eager hands. Yes, there was no mistake. It was there, but how it had grown was inconceivable.
Beyond, through the open door, I saw the brilliant sunlight, the green lawn, the bright flowers and cool foliage of the rustling trees.
It was summer. Yet only yesterday was chill, dark winter, with threatening snow.
Had I been asleep like Rip Van Winkle in the legend? “Tell me,” I cried excitedly, turning to the man standing behind me, “what’s the day of the month to-day?”