Ansard. Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is in Cumberland, and that is not en route. I have a maternal uncle of the name of Forster, who lives on the road—a rich, old, miserly bachelor; but I can’t say much for his hospitality. I have called upon him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner.
Barnstaple. Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which they do not possess—it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr Forster and felt—
Ansard. Felt how?
Barnstaple. How—why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.
Ansard. There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear.
Barnstaple. You arrive at Dovor (mind you spell it Dovor)—go to bed tired and reflective—embark early the next morning—a rough passage—
Ansard. And sea-sick, of course?
Barnstaple. No, Ansard; there I’ll give you a proof of my tact—you shan’t be sea-sick.
Ansard. But I’m sure I should be.
Barnstaple. All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints, ad nauseam—for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe—to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife—he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat—your attentions—she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale—her gratitude—safe arrival at Calais—sweet smiles of the lady—sullen deportment of the gentleman—a few hints—and draw the veil. Do you understand?