"Thou counterfeit'st a bark."
Shakspeare.
There is certainly a decided alteration in Ponking; he now affects the most rollicking high spirits—though why he should find it necessary to dissemble his grief by playing the fool all over the sands is more than I can understand. But he grinds piano-organs, and goes round with the tambourine; receives penny galvanic shocks, and howls until he collects a crowd; has "larks" with the lovebirds which pick out fortunes, and chaffs all the Professors of Phrenology, choosing, as the head-quarters of his exploits, any place where Louise and I happen to be, to whom he returns, with roars of laughter, to tell us his "latest." Then he plays practical jokes on me, chalking things on my back, and putting sand down my neck. It is all very well for him to plead that he does these things "to hide an aching heart,"—but if he hides it in this way, he won't be able to find it again—that's all! I can see, too, it disgusts Louise, who bites her lips a good deal, although, she says, it is "quite a treat to see how Mr. Ponking is enjoying himself." I am afraid, for all that, that she thinks me a little too serious. Perhaps I am—I must prove to her that it is possible to rollick with refinement. But, somehow, I can never make her laugh as Ponking does.
I very seldom have a quiet hour with her now; her brother has persuaded her that she ought "to see more of what's going on," and "do as others do." Her wishes, are, of course, paramount with me—although I cannot see the enjoyment of going to the open-air Music-Hall quite so often, nor did I come here to play "penny nap," on the sands all the afternoon. If, too, Louise must speculate, she might "go nap" with more judgment, and I do strongly object to the ostentatious generosity with which Ponking throws away his best cards, rather than rob her of a trick—it is in the worst taste, and yet I fear she is touched by it. In the evening several of us promenade the town arm in arm; Ponking has a banjo and Alf an accordion. Louise begs me to go, to see that Alf does not get into trouble—which may be necessary enough, but who will see that I get into none?
It is unpleasant to be warned by a policeman not to make so much noise over the "Soy, oh, what Joy," ditty, and I don't know why he singled me out—I was only humming the confounded thing! They generally come in and have supper with me, which Mrs. Surge complains bitterly about; she says the gentlemen stay so late, and are so noisy, and her room smells of smoke so next day. I am aware of that, because I have to sit in it. I don't like Ponking at any time, but, if possible, he is rather more detestable in his sentimental moods, which generally come upon him after supper, when he informs me that the 'alo has departed from his life, and begs me, in broken accents, to allow Louise to visit his tomb occasionally. If he were only there!
"Uneven is the course.
I like it not!"—Shakspeare.
To-day Louise appeared, for the first time, in a striped yachting-cap. I merely hinted, very gently, that, as she had never been on board a yacht in her life, and the cap did not even suit her, I preferred her ordinary style of head-dress, when she grew angry at once. Everybody, she informed me, was not of my opinion—Mr. Ponking had complimented her particularly—hang Ponking!
I find myself constantly greeting and being greeted by Blazers. I am sure I don't know how I have come to be acquainted with so many—they all ask me "How is myself," and, in answer to my polite, but scarcely warm, inquiries after their health, reply that they are "ter-rific"—which they are! Ponking was asked by Louise the other afternoon whether he was "ready for his tea;" and answered briefly, but emphatically, "Wait till I get 'old of it!" Louise remarked afterwards that he was "so quick." I doubt very much whether she would say as much of me. I am as fond of her as ever—in some respects, fonder—but I cannot help noticing these things—I cannot help seeing that Starmouth is not doing her any good.