It fell
in sheets, and the wind blew I know not how many Irish miles an
hour. The Frenchman put on a silk macintosh with a cape, and was
berated by everybody in the same seat because he stood up a moment
and let the water in under the lap covers. His umbrella was a
dainty en-tout-cas with a mother-of-pearl handle, that had answered
well enough in heavy mist or soft drizzle. His hat of fine straw
was tied with a neat cord to his buttonhole; but although that
precaution insured its ultimate safety, it did not prevent its
soaring from his head and descending on Mrs. Shamrock's bonnet. He
conscientiously tried holding it on with one hand, but was then
reproved by both neighbours because his macintosh dripped over them.
"How are your spirits, Frenchy?" asked the cutler jocosely.
"I am not too greatly sad," said the poor gentleman, "but I will be
glad it should be finished; far more joyfully would I be at
Manchester, triste as it may be."
Just then a gust of wind blew his cape over his head and snapped his
parasol.
"It is evidently it has been made in Ireland," he sighed, with a
desperate attempt at gaiety. "It should have had a grosser stem,
and helas! it must not be easy to have it mended in these barbarous
veelages."
We stopped at four o'clock at a wayside hostelry, and I had quietly
made up my mind to descend from the car, and take rooms for the
night, whatever the place might be. Unfortunately, the same idea
occurred to three or four of the soaked travellers; and as men could
leap down, while ladies must wait for the steps, the chivalrous sex,
their manners obscured by the circular tour system, secured the
rooms, and I was obliged to ascend again, wetter than ever, to my
perch beside the driver.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209