A FOGGY STORY.
Some years ago, a physician was hastily summoned to the apartments of a young man of fashion. He was shown into a class of room which may or may not be known to the reader; where tarnished gilded chairs, faded velvet cushions, and showy yet shabby curtains, give an impression at once of elegance and dinginess strongly suggestive of worn-out theatrical properties; and where it is apparent that the shabbiness pervading every expensive article of the room results from careless indifference on the part of the occupant, rather than poverty.
It was night, and a solitary reading-lamp stood upon the table. During the statement of his case the doctor noticed how carefully the patient disposed the light, so that the glare should fall upon the face of his visitor, while he remained far back in the surrounding shadow.
“What you require, Mr. Endwin,” said the doctor, “is rest; by which I am far from meaning
