In short, the night’s work had so exhausted and worn out this actor in it, that he had become a mere somnambulist. He was too tired to rest in his sleep, until he was even tired out of being too tired, and dropped into oblivion. Late in the afternoon he awoke, and in some anxiety sent round to Eugene’s lodging hard by, to inquire if he were up yet?

Oh yes, he was up. In fact, he had not been to bed. He had just come home. And here he was, close following on the heels of the message.

“Why what bloodshot, draggled, dishevelled spectacle is this!” cried Mortimer.

“Are my feathers so very much rumpled?” said Eugene, coolly going up to the looking-glass. They are rather out of sorts. But consider. Such a night for plumage!”

“Such a night?” repeated Mortimer. “What became of you in the morning?”