Mrs. Goodman.—“My dear Bartie! It is you, at last!”
The Reverend B. Goodman.—“Ah! my love, you here! How good it is to see a face one recognises! Come and sit with me a little on this seat. (They sit down.) What a lot you must have to tell me!... Well?”
Mrs. G.—“Well?”
Rev. B. G.—“What a disenchantment, eh!”
Mrs. G.—“If we had only known!”
Rev. B. G.—“If we could only send a messenger down to tell all those worthy people!”
Mrs. G.—“Well! and how about your theory of the ten tribes found? To hear you talk, my poor Bartie, there was going to be no room here for anybody but ourselves....”
Rev. B. G.—“I can’t make it out at all; it bewilders me. Just fancy, my dear, I arrived here last week in the company of a bishop. At the gate, Saint Peter asked us for our names and qualifications. I was not long getting through mine, of course; then up speaks the bishop, in his finest tones, and says: ‘John Thomas, lord-bishop of * * *’ ‘Bishop!’ replies Saint Peter, ‘well ... never mind, you may come in all the same.’ Now, what do you think of that all the same?”
Mrs. G.—“Insolent in the extreme. Ah! my dear, that’s nothing.... Ever since I have been here, I have had constant mortifications; my nerves are irritated every moment by what I see and hear—it is to be hoped I shall get used to it—but it is very trying.... Turn this way.”
Rev. B. G.—“What for?”