The Argosy — page 121: what you’re looking at

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

106 EN’ VOYAGE. © Mabel is going to Rome! MHappy she! and everyone else who can take wings of steam and fly to fresh lands and pastures new. For me, alas, no longer journey is now possible than from my bed, upstairs, to my sofa, downstairs. On that, I am stretched now. The last loiterer over afternoon tea is gone, carrying Mabel’s letter with her. To the cheerful tinkling of cups and tongues has suc- ceeded a pensive silence, in which the ticking of the gilt clock upon the cabinet, the fluff-fluff of the fire, and the purr of Zoo-zoo, on the rug before it, are distinct and soothing. The shutters are closed, and the lined curtains drawn between us and the winter night, but the lamps have not yet been brought in. The room is full of a warm twilight, shed by that perfect fire whose steady glow is reflected in the tiled hearth. For just such a warm nest as this, many a weary traveller, on land or sea, is now sighing. Being human, I, of course, would gladly exchange my shelter for the rush and change of travel. I close my eyes, rather ungratefully, upon the well-known picture, and wish that I, too, were on my way to Rome. What is this weight upon my lap, and what immoderately high footstool is lifting my knees almost to my chin? Who is sitting crushed so close against me, and why does he or she choose a place so uncomfortable for us both? Why does the sofa jolt like Where am I, then? Seated, apparently, in an omnibus of some kind. A bundle of rugs fills my arms, and something which feels like a dressing-bag is under my feet. The too close neighbour is Mabel herself, dozing, and perhaps, like myself, dreaming of home and comfort. I observe, opposite to us, the handsome but somewhat severe countenance of her mother, my Aunt Caroline. Who is that injured-looking person next her ? Her maid, Wenham. Poor Wenham, whom all the luxuries of Powell’s Court failed to satisfy! What can have induced Aunt Caroline to bring you? I am still too sleepy to be quite certain where we are. I catch through the window a glimpse of starry sky and lighted streets. Paris, I recognise you by your lamps. You wear them, not in stiff level rows, like London, but some high, some low, with the rise and fall of beauty’s own line. Stop, stop! Aunt Caroline cannot find her dressing-bag, and life CONNIE IOOLKS m