“And where are you going to, Mr Biquitous?” asked my mother.
“To Cyprus, madam,—the land of the—of the—the something or other; not got coached up yet, but you shall have it all in extenso ere long in the Evergreen, with sketches of the scenery and natives. I’ll order a copy to be sent you.”
“Very kind, thank you,” said my mother; “you are fond of travelling, I think?”
“Fond of it!” exclaimed my friend; “yes, but that feebly expresses my sentiments,—I revel in travelling, I am mad about it. To roam over the world, by land and sea, gathering information, recording it, collating it, extending it, condensing it, and publishing it, for the benefit of the readers of the Evergreen Isle, is my chief terrestrial joy.”
“Why, Mr Biquitous,” said Bella, looking up from her drawing, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, “I thought you were a married man.”
“Ah! Mrs Naranovitsch, I understand your reproofs; but that, madam, I call a celestial joy. Looking into my wife’s blue eyes is what I call star-gazing, and that is a celestial, not a terrestrial, occupation. Next to making the stars twinkle, I take pleasure in travelling—flying through space,—
“Crashing on the railroads,
Skimming on the seas,
Bounding on the mountain-tops,
Battling with the breeze.
Roaming through the forest,
Scampering on the plain,
Never stopping, always going,
Round and round again.”
“How very beautiful,—so poetical!” said Bella.
“So suggestively peaceful,” murmured Nicholas.
“Your own composition?” asked my mother.