Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 321: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PICKWICK ABROAD. 267 similar repast in the kitchen; and so merrily passed the hours, that the clock might have struck twelve at midnight before even Mrs. Weston would have expressed the slightest inclination to return to Paris. It was in the garden at the back of the house, that the ever memor- able conversation took place between Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Weston. It seems that at about half-past eight o’clock, Mr. Winkle proposed to quit the room in which the party had dined, and smoke a cigar in the open air—ea suggestion that was a iuietely nase to by every one present, save Mr. Pickwick and the lady. Mrs. Weston accordingly assented to that gentleman’s offer, to take a stroll in the garden ; and although Mr. Nassau Siffkin felt the influence of the -eyed monster, and attempted to look Mr. Pickwick through and through, the great man was glance-proof, and the widow accompanied him to the Botanical territories in the rear of the tavern. ‘‘ What a beautiful evening,’”’ exclaimed Mrs. Weston, as they drew near a secluded arbour at the bottom of the garden. “Very,” said Mr. Pickwick, feeling himself quite overcome with philanthropy and wine. ‘‘ And what a beautiful summer-house there appears to be here,” he added after a momentary pause. ‘‘Tg there? Well—lI declare, so there is,” cried the fair widow, who had been admiring it for the previous five minutes “The weather is still rather close,” observed Mr. Pickwick, looking towards the arbour with a wistful eye. ‘Do you think so?” returned Mrs. Weston. ‘‘ Perhaps—that is, may be the walk i you ?” “IT certainly think it would be more agreeable to sit down some. where,” said Mr. Pickwick. ‘* But where could we find a seat in this garden?” asked Mrs. Weston, hastening straight towards the summer-house. “‘T really don’t know,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, abstractedly con- ducting his fair companion into the arbour. ‘Nor I,” said Mrs. Weston, as she sank upon a chair in the recesses of the summer-house. ‘“‘Well—here are seats after all,” whispered Mr. Pickwick, as he settled himself on a high stool next to his fair companion’s chair. A pause of five minutes ensued, during which Mrs. Weston looked down upon the ground, and Mr. Pickwick watched the motions of a snail that was winding its perpendicular way up a post. “Your uncle is a very singular man, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Pick- wick, suddenly relapsing from his agreeable occupation of studying the efforts of animated nature. ‘So very eccentric,” observed the lady. “One would scarcely take you for his niece,” continued Mr. Pick- wick, accidentally laying his right hand upon Mrs. Weston’s left. “Indeed!” said the widow, gazing timidly round. ‘No, indeed,” added Mr. Pickwick, gently pressing the hand which was not withdrawn. So, you don’t think I’m like my uncle?” said Mrs. Weston, with no other idea than that of saying something. “J do not.” retumed Mr. Pickwick withasigh; for at that moment a (2) = a 6)(0)() Si (c©)