A CUNARDER SAILS.
Miss Gushington (first trip).—Oh, isn't this too lovely!
Fond Mama.—You are so enthusiastic, Arabella.
Miss Gushington (growing very English).—Oh, but fahncy, mama, reading advertisements of London railways right here before we even leave the dock.
Fond Mama.—That is really nothing.
Miss Gushington.—Oh, but it does seem quite too fascinating. Oh, and here is Mr. Callow. Now, isn't this too chahming!
Mr. Callow.—Couldn't resist coming down to say bon voyage, and all that sort of thing, you know.
Miss Gushington.—Oh, you are so good. And these lovely flowers—Oh, thank you so much!
Mr. Callow.—Oh, really, they are not worth mentioning.
Miss Gushington.—They are simply exquisite. Do you know I have just been telling mama I feel so travelled already!
Mr. Callow.—Oh, come now, you know.
Miss Gushington.—But I really do. Oh, mama, I am going with Mr. Callow to see the luggage lowered. It's all so awfully interesting.
***
Young Mr. Harvard (looking on).—I say, Nell, there goes a pretty girl. I hope she crosses with us.
His Sister (somewhat older, with a superior air, raising her lorgnette).— Yes; she crosses, and for the first time.
Young Mr. Harvard.—Why, do you know her?
His Sister.—Know her! Of course not—but she has a brand new travelling dress.
***
Pompous Old Party.—Well, we're really off, my dear.
His Wife.—Yes; and it is so pleasant to leave with such a throng of cheerful people saying good-by.
Pompous Old Party (looking about benignly).—Yes; a great, noisy, jostling, good-natured crowd. Everybody in a hurry, pushing his neighbor, but nobody in a temper—damme, sir! you are treading on my toes—can't you see, sir, when a man is directly in your way?
***
Timid Passenger (putting the usual question to an officer).—Are we likely to have good weather—that is, you know—I suppose this is the season for a quick passage—and—er—a safe one, you know?
Officer (the usual answer).—The Cunard Line, sir, has never yet lost a passenger.
***
Young Mr. Clubman.—Oh, Miss Larkins, I've been looking all over for you! I began to be afraid I should have to carry this box of nougat back with me.
Miss Larkins.—Another! Why, do you know, quite confidentially, this is my tenth box of bon-bons? but it is the first of nougat; and I dote on nougat!
Young Mr. Clubman.—What an awfully happy thought of mine to select it—one out of ten—such a narrow escape!
***
Old Mr. Clubman.—Hello, Larkins, old fellow, I've scoured three decks for you.
Papa Larkins (below).—Is that you, Clubman? 'Pon my soul, I'm glad to see you!
Old Mr. Clubman,—Oh, I couldn't let you sail without a life-preserver. There it is—some of the old stuff, me boy, that I never produce except to save a friend from shipwreck.
Papa Larkins—Clubman, you're a genius! We will let it gurgle.
***
(Bell rings, whistles blow.)—"All off for shore!"
***
Practical Mama.—Good-by, Horace. Write me often, and remember, don't leave off your flannels till June. (to daughter)—Eleanor, don't make a spectacle of yourself. Last spring, when your aunt sailed, you cried because you couldn't go; and now that you are going you still cry.
***
Pretty Blonde (overheard in a sheltered place).—Good-by, then, Mr. Tandem—and you may come across, you think?
Mr. Tandem.— May I?
Pretty Blonde.—Why, of course; we will be very glad to see you.
Mr. Tandem.—Make the pronoun singular, and I'll sail next week.
Pretty Blonde (archly).—I never did know anything about grammar; perhaps (dropping her eyes and toying lightly with a rose) botany will do as well.
***
Mrs. Sentimental (leaning over the rail).—Look, Augustus—that young man down on the dock!
Mr. Sentimental.—Which one, and what of him?
Mrs. Sentimental.—The tall one yonder. I noticed him up here as the crowd was leaving—he seemed to linger and look back. Perhaps he has a fiancée on board.
Mrs. Sentimental.—Well, and if he has?
Mrs. Sentimental—I should want to know all about it. Oh, he must have! See, he has worked his way to the extreme edge of the pier and is straining all his gaze after the ship!
Mrs. Sentimental.—Oh, I see him. He's a newspaper reporter.
Mrs. Sentimental (after a moment).—I hope you gave him our names, Augustus!
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