'Yes,' she was saying to the man of military appearance, 'it's very early to come back to London, but I did get so tired of those foreign places.'
(In other words, of being far from her Christian—thus he interpreted.)
'No, we didn't make a single pleasant acquaintance. A shockingly tiresome lot of people wherever we went.'
(In comparison with the faithful lover, who waited, waited.)
'Foreigners are so stupid—don't you think so? Why should they always expect you to speak their language?—Oh, of course I speak French; but it is such a disagreeable language—don't you think so?'
(Compared with the accents of English devotion, of course.)
'Do you go in for cycling, Mr. Moxey?' inquired Mrs. Palmer's laughing niece, from a little distance.
'For cycling?' With a great effort he recovered himself and grasped the meaning of the words. 'No, I—I'm sorry to say I don't. Capital exercise!'
'Mr. Dwight has just been telling me such an awfully good story about a friend of his. Do tell it again, Mr. Dwight! It'll make you laugh no end, Mr. Moxey.'
The young man appealed to was ready enough to repeat his anecdote, which had to do with a bold cyclist, who, after dining more than well, rode his machine down a steep hill and escaped destruction only by miracle. Christian laughed desperately, and declared that he had never heard anything so good.