Dr. Angier returned with Mr. Ridley, and Dr. Hillhouse went to his chamber to make ready for breakfast.  His hands were so unsteady as he made his toilette for the day that, in the face of what he had said to his assistant only a little while before, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it off, remarking aloud as he did so, as if apologizing for the act to some one invisibly present: 

“I can’t let this go on any longer.”

The breakfast-bell rang, and the doctor sat down to get the better nerve-sustainer of a good meal.  But even as he reached his hand for the fragrant coffee that his wife had poured for him, he felt a single dull throb in one of his temples, and knew too well its meaning.  He did not lift the coffee to his mouth, but sat with a grave face and an unusually quiet manner.  He had made a serious mistake, and he knew it.  That glass of wine had stimulated the relaxed nerves of his stomach too suddenly, and sent a shock to the exhausted brain.  A slight feeling of nausea was perceived and then came another throb stronger than the first, and with a faint suggestion of pain.  This was followed by a sense of physical depression and discomfort.

“What’s the matter, doctor?” asked his wife, who saw something unusual in his manner.

“A feeling here that I don’t just like,” he replied, touching his temple with a finger.

“Not going to have a headache?”

“I trust not.  It would be a bad thing for me today.”

He slowly lifted his cup of coffee and sipped a part of it.

“Late suppers and late hours may do for younger people,” said Mrs. Hillhouse. “I feel wretched this morning, and am not surprised that your nerves are out of order, nor that you should be threatened with headache.”

The doctor did not reply.  He sipped his coffee again, but without apparent relish, and, instead of eating anything, sat in an unusually quiet manner and with a very sober aspect of countenance.

“I don’t want a mouthful of breakfast,” said Mrs. Hillhouse, pushing away her plate.

“Nor I,” replied the doctor; “but I can’t begin to-day on an empty stomach.”

And he tried to force himself to take food, but made little progress in the effort.

“It’s dreadful about Archie Voss,” said Mrs. Hillhouse.

“Oh he’ll come up all right,” returned her husband, with some impatience in his voice.

“I hope so.  But if he were my son, I’d rather see him in his grave than as I saw him last night.”

“It’s very easy to talk in that way; but if Archie were your son, you’d not be very long in choosing between death and a glass or two of wine more than he had strength to carry.”

“If he were my son,” replied the doctor’s wife, “I would do all in my power to keep him away from entertainments where liquor is served in such profusion.  The danger is too great.”

“He would have to take his chances with the rest,” replied the doctor.  “All that we could possibly do would be to teach him moderation and self-denial.”