"Slowly, Miss Stillwater! we're drifting once more. Ah, look at this giant rock looming above us; how dark and grim—"
"That's called the 'Devil's Pulpit.' The water right here is five hundred feet deep."
"And a moment ago it was quite shallow. How black and impenetrable—'The Devil's Pulpit.' I think I can sniff an odor of sulphur. Five hundred feet deep. How quickly the shallows change to the depths—how quickly—don't hurry—what a gruesome spot. Just the place for a ghost story—that Indian maiden we were talking of this morning—will she do?"
"Well, there was a certain tribe—"
"Pardon me, Miss Stillwater. I forgot that story had already been reserved for the camp fire. Everything in its place."
"How systematic—"
"I don't believe in taking all the good things at once, like a greedy child—besides, poor Scheherezade's head is at stake! I would not deprive her of one night's respite—"
"Suppose you tell me a story, Lord Canning—one of your adventures. You have travelled so much, you must have had a very interesting life."
"Interesting in one way—barren in another. Don't lean over like that, please."
"Your uncle says you have a passion for exploring."