Nature, which provided me with balmy zephyrs that were more comforting
than buttered toast; which set the race of the waves to the ridges of
Fermain, where arose no shrill, heated voice crying, "Love--forty";
which decked foliage in more splendid sheen than anything the local
costumier could achieve, and whose poplars swayed more rhythmically
than the dancers of the Assembly Rooms.

The constraint which had been upon us during our former conversation
vanished at breakfast. We were both hungry, and we had a common topic.
We related our story of the sea in alternate sentences. We ate and we
talked, turn and turn about. My mother listened. To her the affair,
compared with the tremendous subjects to which she was accustomed to
direct her mind, was broad farce. James took it with an air of
restrained amusement. I, seriously.

Tentatively, I diverged from this subject towards other and wider
fields. Impressions of Guernsey, which drew from him his address, at
the St. Peter's Port Hotel. The horrors of the sea passage from
Weymouth, which extorted a comment on the limitations of England.
England. London. Kensington. South Kensington. The Gunton-Cresswells?
Yes, yes! Extraordinary. Curious coincidence. Excursus on smallness of
world. Queer old gentleman, Mr. Gunton-Cresswell. He is, indeed. Quite
one of the old school. Oh, quite. Still wears that beaver hat? Does he
really? Yes. Ha, ha! Yes.

Here the humanising influence of the Teutonic school of philosophic
analysis was demonstrated by my mother's action. Mr. Cloyster, she
said, must reconcile himself to exchanging his comfortable rooms at the
St. Peter's Port--("I particularly dislike half-filled hotel life, Mrs.
Goodwin")--for the shelter of our cottage. He accepted. He was then