"Shall I be believed," says Our Missis, with flashing eyes, "when I tell
you that no sooner had I set my foot upon that treacherous shore--"

Here Sniff, either bursting out mad, or thinking aloud, says, in a low
voice: "Feet. Plural, you know."

The cowering that come upon him when he was spurned by all eyes, added to
his being beneath contempt, was sufficient punishment for a cove so
grovelling. In the midst of a silence rendered more impressive by the
turned-up female noses with which it was pervaded, Our Missis went on:

"Shall I be believed when I tell you, that no sooner had I landed," this
word with a killing look at Sniff, "on that treacherous shore, than I was
ushered into a Refreshment Room where there were--I do not
exaggerate--actually eatable things to eat?"

A groan burst from the ladies. I not only did myself the honour of
jining, but also of lengthening it out.

"Where there were," Our Missis added, "not only eatable things to eat,
but also drinkable things to drink?"

A murmur, swelling almost into a scream, ariz. Miss Piff, trembling with
indignation, called out, "Name?"

"I _will_ name," said Our Missis. "There was roast fowls, hot and cold;
there was smoking roast veal surrounded with browned potatoes; there was
hot soup with (again I ask shall I be credited?) nothing bitter in it,
and no flour to choke off the consumer; there was a variety of cold
dishes set off with jelly; there was salad; there was--mark me! _fresh_