The appearance of la chere mamma beside the hissing tea-urn brought us both back to ourselves; and, after an hour's chatting, we wished good night, to start on the morrow for the continent.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CALAIS.
It was upon a lovely evening in autumn, as the Dover steam-boat rounded the wooden pier at Calais, amid a fleet of small boats filled with eager and anxious faces, soliciting, in every species of bad English and "patois" [vulgar] French, the attention and patronage of the passengers.
"Hotel de Bain, mi lor'."
"Hotel d'Angleterre," said another, in a voice of the most imposing superiority. "C'est superbe—pretty well."