It was late on the morning following our last
chapter ere he thought he had got rid of as much of his winey headache as
fitful sleep would carry off, and enveloped himself in a blue and
yellow-flowered silk dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. He looked at his
letters, and knowing their outsides, left them for future perusal, and
sousing himself into the depths of a many-cushioned easy-chair, proceeded
to spell his _Morning Post_--Tattersall's advertisements--'Grosjean's
Pale-tots'--'Mr. Albert Smith'--'Coals, best Stewart Hetton or
Lambton's'--'Police Intelligence,' and such other light reading as does not
require any great effort to connect or comprehend.
Then came his breakfast, for which he had very little appetite, though he
relished his coffee, and also an anchovy. While dawdling over these, he
heard sundry wheels grinding about below the window, and the bumping and
thumping of boxes, indicative of 'goings away,' for which he couldn't say
he felt sorry. He couldn't even be at the trouble of getting up and going
to the window to see who it was that was off, so weary and head-achy was
he.
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