Suppose the clock be set back four-and-twenty hours, and behold now the Baron von Blitzenberg, the diplomatist and premier baron of Bavaria, engaged in unhappy argument with himself.

Unhappy, because his reason, though so carefully trained from the kindergarten upward, proved unable to combat the dismal onsets of superstition.
"Pooh! who cares for an old picture ?" Reason would reiterate.
"It is an omen," said Superstition simply; and Reason stood convicted as an empty braggart.
But if Time be the great healer, Dinner is at least a clever quack, and when he and old Mr.Rentoul had consumed well-nigh a bottle and a half of their host's port between them, the outlook became much less gloomy.
A particularly hilarious evening in the drawing-room completed the triumph of mind over what he was now able to term "jost nonsense," and he slept that night as soundly as the Count was simultaneously slumbering in Sir Justin's bed-room.

And there was no unpleasant awakening in the Baron's case.

On the contrary, all nature seemed in a conspiracy to make the last day of his adventure pleasant.

The sun shone brightly, his razors had an excellent edge, sausages were served for breakfast, and when he joined the family afterwards he found them as affectionately kind as a circle of relations.