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Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech. "Do be quiet!" cried the authoritative voice; and the would-be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the "Sohological Gardens." "You should read Blount's Jocular Tenures, Mr. Ingoldsby," pursued Simpkinson. "A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, His Royal Highness the Duke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers "
Lady Simpkinson is a sister of Lady Franklin, whom I was very glad to meet, as she has been in America and knows many Americans, Mrs. Kirkland for one. . . . Then I have passed one evening for the first time at Mr. Tagent's, the Unitarian clergyman, where I met many of the literary people who are out of the great world, and yet very desirable to see.
I am afraid you will be inclined to think this "cant" and I am conscious that even one's truest feelings, if very frequently put out in the light, do make a bad and disagreeable appearance; but this, however, is true, and even if I am carrying it too far, I do not think it has made me really forgetful of my personal friends, such as, in particular, Gell and Burbidge and Walrond, and yourself, my dear Simpkinson .
"Simpkinson," he said, going at once into the young man's bed-room, "have you heard what has happened to me?" Simpkinson had heard all about it, and expressed himself as "deucedly sorry" for the old man's death, but seemed to think that there might be consolation for that sorrow. "I must go to Scroope immediately," said Neville.
At length a look from Caroline, followed by a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed, like a female Chrononotonthologos, "immersed in cogibundity of cogitation."
Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes. "When I was a young man," said Mr. Peters, "I remember I always made a point of " "Pray, how long ago was that?" asked Mr. Simpkinson from Bath. "Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was let me see I was "
Perhaps I'd better go with you," said the apostle of muscular Christianity. "No, no," I said. "They're not after me especially. I'll slip away in the other direction." So I bade Mr. Simpkinson good-bye, and went out on the steps, and the fresh air felt good to me. I saw the crowd down the street; the ex-service men were still pushing and shouting, driving people away from the theatre.
The diversion was effectual; every one looked towards Miss Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for "creature comforts," was seated apart on the dilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper something that had strongly impressed her; the air the eye in a "fine frenzy rolling" all betokened that the divine afflarus was come. Her father rose, and stole silently towards her.
The squire was a philosopher, and had been there often before, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens. "Bolsover Priory," said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of a connoisseur "Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of Henry the Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century.
He was barely conscious of the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap of Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from Sandbourne-on-Sea. He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six and elevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel.
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