J. F. Who brought you there?
Lord T. A policeman: one Potlegoff. I thought he was a Russian by his name, but it seems he is an Englishman—and a liar. He said it would be exciting: so I went.
J. F. And was it exciting?
Lord T. NO: it was dull.
J. F. How many were present?
Lord T. Seventeen: I counted them, because I hadn’t got anything else to do.
J. F. Did they plot anything dreadful?
Lord T. Not that I could hear. They sat and smoked; and one fool was in the chair, and another fool read letters; and then they worried till I was sick of it as to where such and such fools should go to spout folly the next week; and now and then an old bald-headed fool and a stumpy little fool in blue made jokes, at which they laughed a good deal; but I couldn’t understand the jokes—and I came away.
J. F. Thank you, my lord.
Mr. H. My lord Tennyson, I wish to ask you a question. You say that you couldn’t understand their jokes: but could you understand them when they were in earnest?