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?"