Fox, who
reflects that she has never been there. The widow is vexed out of
patience, because her daughter Maria has got a place beside young
Cambric, the penniless curate, and not by Colonel Goldmore, the rich
widower from India. The Doctor's wife is sulky, because she has not been
led out before the barrister's lady; old Doctor Cork is grumbling at the
wine, and Guttleton sneering at the cookery.
And to think that all these people might be so happy, and easy, and
friendly, were they brought together in a natural unpretentious way,
and but for an unhappy passion for peacocks' feathers in England. Gentle
shades of Marat and Robespierre! when I see how all the honesty of
society is corrupted among us by the miserable fashion-worship, I feel
as angry as Mrs. Fox just mentioned, and ready to order a general BATTUE
of peacocks.
CHAPTER XXI--SOME CONTINENTAL SNOBS
Now that September has come, and all our Parliamentary duties are over,
perhaps no class of Snobs are in such high feather as the Continental
Snobs. I watch these daily as they commence their migrations from the
beach at Folkestone. I see shoals of them depart (not perhaps without
an innate longing too to quit the Island along with those happy Snobs).
Farewell, dear friends, I say: you little know that the individual
who regards you from the beach is your friend and historiographer and
brother.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120