“Yes?”
“What is that rustling?”
“It’s me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the upper end of my pantaloons.”
“Quick! throw those things away! I do believe you would deliberately put on those clothes at such a time as this; yet you know perfectly well that all authorities agree that woolen stuffs attract lightning. Oh, dear, dear, it isn’t sufficient that one’s life must be in peril from natural causes, but you must do everything you can possibly think of to augment the danger. Oh, don’t sing! What can you be thinking of?”
“Now where’s the harm in it?”
“Mortimer, if I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times, that singing causes vibrations in the atmosphere which interrupt the flow of the electric fluid, and—What on earth are you opening that door for?”
“Goodness gracious, woman, is there is any harm in that?”
“Harm? There’s death in it. Anybody that has given this subject any attention knows that to create a draught is to invite the lightning. You haven’t half shut it; shut it tight,—and do hurry, or we are all destroyed. Oh, it is an awful thing to be shut up with a lunatic at such a time as this. Mortimer, what are you doing?”