Chapter Twenty Two.
Spa, June 30.
Yesterday I fell in with two old friends, who, from a mere “truant disposition,” joined perhaps with a little good will towards me, came over to Spa. As soon as their arrival had been announced, I went to them, and at their request joined their dinner. After our first greetings, B—, who not only appears, but really is, a man of fashion, in the best sense of the term, wanted his snuff-box. It was in his bed-room, and his bed-room was locked by the servant, who had taken the key and gone out. The consequence was, that B— had to wait some time, and until the man came back. I have always had a great aversion to a valet when constantly moving about on the Continent, as a single man; and, although I do not now, as I used to do when a midshipman, brush my own clothes and black my own shoes, yet I like independence, in every thing, and infinitely prefer doing anything myself, to being waited upon; for, generally speaking, it is the master who waits and not the man.
“I wonder you bother yourself with such a travelling appendage, B—,” observed I, giving him a pinch of snuff to quiet his impatience. “I have never lately travelled with one.”
“My dear fellow—the comfort of it—you have no idea. It would be impossible to get on without one.”
“Quite impossible,” observed W—, my other acquaintance.
“I have been brought up in a school in which the word impossible has been erased from the language.”
“Well, but the comfort of it. When you arrive, dirty and dusty, your portmanteau opened, all your articles of dress laid out.”