We
will all club together and buy it, won't we gentlemen?" "Ay, ay! so say we all," cried several voices at once. "Impossible, my dear sir--impossible," remonstrated our artist. "_Impossible!_ Why?" "I feel I shall never surpass this," answered McGuilp. "It is a sample
work. I can make use of it in many ways as a study. But this I will do. I will protract my stay yet a few days, though I have already remained
longer than I intended, and I will make a copy of the picture, which it
shall be my pleasure to present to the honoured members of this club." Murmurs of applause and thanks followed this speech, after which the
company dispersed until dinner-time. CHAPTER VIII. The next morning broke dark and gloomy. Our artist rose from his couch
languid and unrefreshed. His face was pale and haggard, with dark
circles round his eyes. What had transpired? Had he received a second
visit from the headless lady? Not so. What then? He had slept
indifferently, having been kept awake by his own distracting thoughts. If he chanced to close his eyes for a moment his peace was disturbed by
the most chaotic and depressing dreams. Was he unwell? Did the fare at
the inn disagree with him? He made no complaints. Then why this strange
squeamishness--these wild chaotic dreams, through all of which _one_
face in particular seemed always to the fore? Sometimes happy and
smiling, full of life and health, then sad and downcast--again looking
at him with pleading eyes, yet always the same face. Whose face this was
we will leave our readers to conjecture. "Bah!" soliloquised our artist, as he placed one foot upon the floor, "a
chit of a girl like that, and at _my_ age too." He wasn't much past eight and twenty, true, but then the girl running in
his thoughts was barely sixteen. In love? Not he. She was a dear, sweet
child, it was true, and pure as an angel; but her education, her extreme
youth, her position, her surroundings--no, no. Now he was quite out of bed. His shaving water stood ready for him
outside. He opened the door ajar, and took it in. Then placing the jug
on the table, he proceeded to strop his razors. As he did so, he caught
a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and started. "I'll tell you what it is, Vandyke, my boy," he said, accosting his own
reflection in the glass, "you are looking worse than I thought. Come,
cheer up, and make the best of things. It would never do for the members
of the club to notice anything, and by putting two and two together,
guess at the reason _why_. No, I must dissemble." Now, men of the world are shrewd observers, and a very slight clue is
often enough. Here, for instance, was a case of two young persons, both
good looking, being thrown together under circumstances peculiarly
favourable for a flirtation, being alone and unobserved. Well, what
then? Need they necessarily fall in love with each other? Not
_necessarily_ perhaps, says the world, but in all probability they
_will_. Time and opportunity alone being necessary to bring the matter
about. So the world may perhaps not be so very far wrong in its
deductions. Having now mixed up an abundant lather, McGuilp rubbed it well over his
chin and lower part of his face. Then inserting his razor in the hot
water, he, with as steady a hand as possible under the circumstances,
proceeded to reap the hirsute stubble from its native habitat until the
operation was completed to his satisfaction. Having at length finished
his toilet with even more than usual precision, he called up a cheerful
look to his countenance, and joined the rest of the members at the
breakfast-table, with an hilarity and jocoseness of manner which took
them all in. The breakfast was sumptuous as usual. The table groaned under every
delicacy of the season, and our members, having seated themselves, did
ample honour to the repast. A yule log blazed on the hearth, and a
general air of comfort pervaded the inn, as if to make up for the murky
weather without. Yet, despite these creature comforts, and the hearty
appreciation of them by our members, there was one present whose
appetite failed him. In spite of his forced hilarity, which he now found
it difficult to sustain, for sad thoughts would obtrude themselves, our
artist but pecked at his food. The fumes of the eggs and bacon sickened him. The kippered herrings were
an offence unto his nostrils. He loathed such gross cheer. His toast and
roll were but nibbled at, his cup of coffee barely sipped, yet keep up
appearances he must. So he talked a good deal of vapid nonsense, made
trivial remarks about the weather, etc., which served to put the rest of
the members off the scent, engrossed as each was with his own favourite
dish. The professional eye of Dr. Bleedem, however, was more on the
alert, and not so easily deceived. "You are not looking so well this morning, Mr. McGuilp," he said, eyeing
his patient critically. Our artist hastened to assure him that he never felt better in his life. This remark, however, fell flat upon the doctor's ears, and he proceeded
as if he had not heard him. "You have eaten nothing. I notice that you only play with your food. Now, when a patient plays with his food, it is a sure sign that there is
something wrong. You should take----"

"Oh! I don't want any medicine, thank you," interrupted McGuilp. "I
assure you I am all right. A little loss of appetite, as you say;
perhaps from the sudden change in the weather, which always affects me
more or less. The fact is, I didn't sleep very well last night, and----"

"Yes, I can see _that_," continued Dr. Bleedem. By this time the other members were getting interested, and our artist
found himself suddenly the cynosure for all the scrutiny of the club. How he cursed the doctor's officiousness! Why couldn't he mind his own
business? "Yes, now you mention it, doctor, I can see that our young friend does
_not_ seem quite up to the mark to-day," remarked Mr. Oldstone. "By his appearance I should say the young gentleman had something on his
mind," suggested Mr. Hardcase. "His countenance seems sicklied o'er
with the pale cast of thought," quoted Mr. Blackdeed from his favourite
author. Then each member had something to say in turn, till our artist felt
himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. In vain did he give
himself a twisted pinch in the fleshy part of his leg under the table. The blush would rise, and there was no checking it. He fancied he could
see the members give side glances one to the other, or trying to conceal
a smile; but this may have been imagination. Breakfast being now over, each member rose from the table, some
gathering round the fire, one or two of them peering out into the murky
gloom. Then Helen entered to clear away the breakfast things. She, too,
seemed less lively than her wont, her face paler, and she went about her
domestic duties mechanically, with downcast eyes. "Why, Helen, my girl," exclaimed Dr. Bleedem, "you don't look as bright
as usual. Have _you_ been having a sleepless night?