'That would furnish a good concert for the poets,' he remarked. 'A parting, a separation of lovers; "even as a body from the watertorn," or "from the water plucked"; eh? do you think--"so I weep round her, tearful in her track," an excellent--' But the outraged woman, dripping in grievous discomfort above him, made a peremptory gesture. 'Mr. Amble, will you come on shore instantly, I have borne with your stupidity long enough. I insist upon your remembering, sir, that you have a family dependent upon you. Other men may commit these follies.' This was a blow at myself, a bachelor whom the lady had never persuaded to dream of relinquishing his freedom. 'My dear, I am coming,' said the vicar. 'Then, come at once, or I shall think you idiotic,' the wife retorted. 'I have been endeavouring,' the vicar now addressed me, 'to prove by a practical demonstration that women are capable of as much philosophy as men, under any sudden and afflicting revolution of circumstances.' 'And if you get a sunstroke, you will be rightly punished, and I shall not be sorry, Mr. Amble.' 'I am coming, my dear Jane. Pray run into the house and change your things.' 'Not till I see you out of the water, sir.' 'You are losing your temper, my love.' 'You would make a saint lose his temper, Mr. Amble.' 'There were female saints, my dear,' the vicar mildly responded; and addressed me further: 'Up to this point, I assure you, Pollingray, no conduct could have been more exemplary than Mrs. Amble's. I had got her into the boat--a good boat, a capital boat--but getting in myself, we overturned. The first impulse of an ordinary woman would have been to reproach and scold; but Mrs. Amble succumbed only to the first impulse. Discovering that all effort unaided to climb the bank was fruitless, she agreed to wait patiently and make the best of circumstances; and she did; and she learnt to enjoy it. There is marrow in every bone. My dear. Jane, I have never admired you so much. I tried her, Pollingray, in metaphysics. I talked to her of the opera we last heard, I think fifty years ago. And as it is less endurable for a woman to be patient in tribulation--the honour is greater, when she overcomes the fleshy trial. Insomuch,' the vicar put on a bland air of abnegation of honour, 'that I am disposed to consider any male philosopher our superior; when you've found one, ha, ha--when you've found one. O sol pulcher! I am ready to sing that the day has been glorious, so far. Pulcher ille dies.' Mrs. Amble appealed to me. 'Would anybody not swear that he is mad to see him standing waist-deep in the water and the sun on his bald head, I am reduced to entreat you not to--though you have no family of your own--not to encourage him. It is amusing to you. Pray, reflect that such folly is too often fatal. Compel him to come on shore.'