away untasted--he, whose
appetite never failed him, whose digestion was still equal to any
demands on it!

The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was rowed to
the Lido.

Out on the airy Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not left the
hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. Waking, on
reaching the landing-place, he crossed the Lido, and enjoyed a
morning's swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poor restaurant on
the island, in those days; but his appetite was now ready for anything;
he ate whatever was offered to him, like a famished man. He could
hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sent away untasted
his excellent breakfast at the hotel.

Returning to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the
picture-galleries and the churches. Towards six o'clock his gondola
took him back, with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling
acquaintances with whom he had engaged to dine at the table d'hote.

The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every
guest in the hotel but one. To Henry's astonishment, the appetite with
which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely left him
when he sat down to table. He could drink some wine, but he could
literally eat nothing. 'What in the world is the matter with you?' his
travelling acquaintances asked. He could honestly answer, 'I know no
more than you do.'

When night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroom another
trial. The result of the second experiment was a repetition of the
result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervading sense of
depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless night. And
once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his appetite completely
failed him!

This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary to be
passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends in the
public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager, naturally
zealous in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the implied
reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invited the travellers present
to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick's bedroom was to blame for
Mr. Westwick's sleepless nights; and he especially appealed to a
grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-table of an English
traveller, to take the lead in the investigation. 'This is Doctor
Bruno, our first physician in Venice,' he explained. 'I appeal to him
to say if there are an