"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him.
I've put him to bed many a time when--"
It was too much.
"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.
But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The
chandeliers rattled, the egg-shell china danced upon the what-not,
and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in
the company.
"It's an earthquake!" shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up
with an oath.
Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be
expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the
rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly
white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his
conscience.
"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.
"Or a landslip," suggested Sam Buzza.
"Or a paroxysm of Nature," said Mr. Moggridge (though nobody knew
what he meant).
"Or the end of the world," hazarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.
"I beg your pardon," interposed Mrs. Buzza timidly, "but I think it
may be my husband."
"Is your husband a volcano, madam?" snapped Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys,
rather sharply.
Mrs. Buzza might have answered "Yes," with some colour of truth; but
she merely said, "I think it must be his double-bass.
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