Mrs. T. (R.) For goodness sake, uncle, don’t talk of melancholy forebodings—when we are looking forward to the Continent.
Todd. Aye, what do you think of six months amidst the classic scenes of Italy. Fancy smoking a cigar on the summit of Vesuvius; think of dancing the Tarantula amidst the ruins of Pompeii; imagine the delicious maccaroni—and the lazzaroni—and all the other oni’s. (forgetting himself) Picture to yourself the indescribable rapture of floating on the moonlit sea with a lovely creature beside you.
Mrs. T. (indignantly) Mr. Todd!
Todd. (recollecting himself crosses C. to Mrs. Todd) Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah! Of course my dear, I was thinking of you—idealizing you as it were—in a poetic dream. (crosses back to L.) By the bye, Croker, is there anything we can do for you abroad? We expect to be in Boulogne to-morrow night.
Crok. ( C.) Well, I don’t wish to alarm you—but I had once a dear friend who was lost in crossing to Boulogne.
Todd. (L.) Lost! hem! dear me! But with a good steamer you’re tolerably safe, I believe.
Crok. I’ve heard of several appalling catastrophes to steamers. Now, if you’d like to hear a few of them. (sits on L. of table, C.)
Mrs. T. (seated R. of table) Oh, dear, no! Don’t trouble yourself, uncle.
Crok. The trouble is nothing; it is to me always a melancholy pleasure to prepare my friends for the worst.
Todd. (seated in arm chair, L.) We’re very much obliged to you—but we’d rather have it without preparation.