Fronting the sea a desk was laid open.  On it were the quills faithfully brought down by Braintop.

“Pole’s own quills,” she said, having fixed Braintop in this official seat, while she took hers at a station half-commanding the young clerk’s face.  The mighty breakfast had given Braintop intolerable desire to stretch his limbs by the sounding shore, and enjoy life in semi-oblivion.  He cheered himself with the reflection that there was only one letter to write, so he remarked politely that he was at his hostess’s disposal.  Thereat Mrs. Chump questioned him closely whether Mr. Pole had spoken her name aloud; and whether he did it somehow, now and then by accident, and whether he had looked worse of late.  Braintop answered the latter question first, assuring her that Mr. Pole was improving.

“Then there’s no marcy from me,” said Mrs. Chump; and immediately discharged an exclamatory narrative of her recent troubles, and the breach between herself and Brookfield, at Braintop’s ears.  This done, she told him that he was there to write the reply to the letters of the ladies, in her name.  “Begin,” she said.  “Ye’ve got head enough to guess my feelin’s.  I’m invited, and I won’t go—­till I’m fetched.  But don’t say that.  That’s their guess ye know.  ’And I don’t care for ye enough to be angry at all, but it’s pity I feel at a parcel of fine garls’—­so on, Mr. Braintop.”

The perplexities of epistolary correspondence were assuming the like proportions to the recruited secretary that they had worn to Mrs. Chump.  Steadily watching his countenance; she jogged him thus:  “As if ye couldn’t help ut, ye know, ye begin.  Jest like wakin’ in the mornin’ after dancin’ all night.  Ye make the garls seem to hear me seemin’ to say—­Oooo!  I was so comfortable before your disturbin’ me with your horrud voices.  Ye understand, Mr. Braintop?  ’I’m in bed, and you’re a cold bath.’  Begin like that, ye know.  ’Here’s clover, and you’re nettles.’  D’ye see?  Here from my glass o’ good Porrt to your tumbler of horrud acud vin’gar.’  Bless the boy! he don’t begin.”

She stamped her foot.  Braintop, in desperation, made a plunge at the paper.  Looking over his shoulder in a delighted eagerness, she suddenly gave it a scornful push. “‘Dear!’” she exclaimed.  “You’re dearin’ them, absurd young man I’m not the woman to I dear ’em—­not at the starrt!  I’m indignant—­I’m hurrt.  I come round to the ‘dear’ by-and-by, after I have whipped each of the proud sluts, and their brother Mr. Wilfrid, just as if by accident.  Ye’ll promus to forget avery secret I tell ye; but our way is always to pretend to believe the men can’t help themselves.  So the men look like fools, ye sly laughin’ fella! and the women horrud scheming spiders.  Now, away, with ye, and no dearin’.”

The Sunday-bells sounded mockingly in Braintop’s ears, appearing to ask him how he liked his holiday; and the white sails on the horizon line have seldom taunted prisoner more.  He spread out another sheet of notepaper and wrote “My,” and there he stopped.