The Argosy — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

En Voyage. 107 without it, even in Rome, is impossible. Everything is turned topsy- turvy, and we have all to rise; even the sleepy Mabel; when the missing treasure is discovered beneath its owner’s skirts. Having made ourselves and the carriage thoroughly uncomfortable we subside. Surely we are in the daylight, or daylight ‘‘a little sick.” No, it is not the sun but science’s counterfeit which is flooding this meeting- place of streets. In its pale but brilliant radiance the minor lights are dimmed, and the white and coloured globes show like large, softly- tinted jewels. We hear the whirl of carriages, passing and repassing, and the gay hum of those streams of chattering, gesticulating pleasure-seekers, on the pavement. The next moment, this rainbow- tinted picture is behind us. We have plunged into the comparative darkness of a side-street. The change is favourable for reflection. Aunt Caroline, accord- ingly, mentally remembers all the boxes she saw placed on the omnibus, and arrives at the pleasing conclusion that the least dispen- sable of all has been left at the hotel. This opinion is only too well confirmed on our arrival at the station. Whilst our luggage is being weighed, Aunt Caroline and Wenham exchange rebukes and com- plaints over the forgotten portmanteau. The discussion ends in my aunt giving Wenham warning; a singularly happy arrangement, by which we have her throughout our journey when she is of no use, and lose her directly we return to England, when she might be of some. Our carriage is found. We joyfully pull out our fauteuils-lits, and prepare for rest. Much shouting, slamming and ringing, and we are off. The lights and the houses become fewer and farther between. I lean out to take a last look at Paris, lying sparkling behind us. Farewell, siren of cities, brilliant, but unstable as water. Our rest is postponed by a dispute between my aunt and cousin as to whether, to quote their own graphic way of putting the case, we shall perish from cold or from asphyxia. Mabel descants learnedly upon carbonic acid and oxygen; Aunt Caroline deplores the new- fangled fads of the rising generation. I, so overpowered with drowsiness that death either from suffocation or cold seems to me preferable to sleep deferred, suggest a middle course, by which the windows are shut and the ventilators left open. Silence and repose ensue, broken only by occasional stoppages, with attendant bustling at lighted stations, and untimely offers of foot-warmers and refreshment. The night has given place to day more than an hour, when, much against our inclinations, we are awakened by Aunt Caroline; one of those high-principled Englishwomen who always rise at the same hour and insist on everyone near them doing the same, at whatever time they may have gone to bed or to sleep. Her sense of method also requires that all the rugs shall be folded and strapped before CoOnniclo@oolkks @) (C(O) mn