'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in
Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having
had a wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young
man alive, and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of
China, has brought me away, room and all, to compare us together.
Perhaps,' said Mr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow,
and looking on that side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the
Princess may be still--No, she's gone.'
Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking
it to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and
doubt, Mr Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take
the first favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An
occasion presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a
knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr
Swiveller called out as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!'
The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian
Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their
hands instead of ringing the bell.
Pages:
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870