“Shall I be believed,” says Our Missis, with flashing eyes, “when I tell you that no sooner had I set my foot upon that treacherous shore—­”

Here Sniff, either bursting out mad, or thinking aloud, says, in a low voice:  “Feet.  Plural, you know.”

The cowering that come upon him when he was spurned by all eyes, added to his being beneath contempt, was sufficient punishment for a cove so grovelling.  In the midst of a silence rendered more impressive by the turned-up female noses with which it was pervaded, Our Missis went on: 

“Shall I be believed when I tell you, that no sooner had I landed,” this word with a killing look at Sniff, “on that treacherous shore, than I was ushered into a Refreshment Room where there were—­I do not exaggerate—­actually eatable things to eat?”

A groan burst from the ladies.  I not only did myself the honour of jining, but also of lengthening it out.

“Where there were,” Our Missis added, “not only eatable things to eat, but also drinkable things to drink?”

A murmur, swelling almost into a scream, ariz.  Miss Piff, trembling with indignation, called out, “Name?”

“I will name,” said Our Missis.  “There was roast fowls, hot and cold; there was smoking roast veal surrounded with browned potatoes; there was hot soup with (again I ask shall I be credited?) nothing bitter in it, and no flour to choke off the consumer; there was a variety of cold dishes set off with jelly; there was salad; there was—­mark me! fresh pastry, and that of a light construction; there was a luscious show of fruit; there was bottles and decanters of sound small wine, of every size, and adapted to every pocket; the same odious statement will apply to brandy; and these were set out upon the counter so that all could help themselves.”

Our Missis’s lips so quivered, that Mrs. Sniff, though scarcely less convulsed than she were, got up and held the tumbler to them.

“This,” proceeds Our Missis, “was my first unconstitutional experience.  Well would it have been if it had been my last and worst.  But no.  As I proceeded farther into that enslaved and ignorant land, its aspect became more hideous.  I need not explain to this assembly the ingredients and formation of the British Refreshment sangwich?”

Universal laughter,—­except from Sniff, who, as sangwich-cutter, shook his head in a state of the utmost dejection as he stood with it agin the wall.

“Well!” said Our Missis, with dilated nostrils.  “Take a fresh, crisp, long, crusty penny loaf made of the whitest and best flour.  Cut it longwise through the middle.  Insert a fair and nicely fitting slice of ham.  Tie a smart piece of ribbon round the middle of the whole to bind it together.  Add at one end a neat wrapper of clean white paper by which to hold it.  And the universal French Refreshment sangwich busts on your disgusted vision.”

A cry of “Shame!” from all—­except Sniff, which rubbed his stomach with a soothing hand.