CROK. The trouble is nothing; it is to me always a melancholy pleasure to prepare my friends for the worst. TODD. (_seated in arm chair_, L.) We’re very much obliged to you—but we’d rather have it without preparation. MRS. T. Do you know, uncle, we purpose crossing the Alps into Italy? CROK. It was but yesterday I was reading of a party of six young Englishmen being buried beneath an avalanche on the great St. Bernard. TODD. Buried—alive? CROK. Alive. TODD. B—b—but it don’t often happen, does it? CROK. Continually, at this season. Ask Albert Smith; _he_ knows:—and what is most distressing, they all leave large families—of creditors to deplore their loss. TODD. I’m not naturally timid; but these things are sufficient to shake the stoutest heart. CROK. Take my advice, Samuel, and stay in your own country. If you must travel—if you must go to the seaside—have you not Gravesend, Southend, and Mile-end? TODD. Oh, but you know, if one never moves from one’s native shore, one might as well be born a muscle—or a barnacle! MRS. T. Besides, my dear uncle, it’s now too late to alter our arrangements. What would they say at Brompton if we went to Margate, with a passport for Naples? CROK. Have you considered the practices of the Italian innkeepers, who skin an Englishman alive, when they catch him? TODD. I shan’t mind that; I’ve undergone the operation so frequently in our own happy country. CROK. Then there’s the danger of the roads. I don’t want to alarm you; but I had a dear friend once, who was travelling with his young wife, as you might be, to Naples— TODD. To Naples? CROK. To Naples—where they were stopped in a lonely mountain road by brigands. TODD. Did you say—by—brigands? CROK. Twenty of them—all armed to the teeth. Their captain, a ferociously handsome-looking scoundrel, clapped a carbine to my unfortunate friend’s head—and— TODD. (_earnestly_) Blew out his brains? CROK. All that heaven had granted to him. TODD. Atrocious wretch! And your unfortunate friend’s wife—did they shoot her too? CROK. (_solemnly_) No—no;—it’s a horrible tale! TODD. (_rises_) Then I’d rather not hear it. (_crosses to_ C.) Laura, my dear; on reflection, hadn’t we better confine our views to Margate, this year? MRS. T. (_rises_) No, Todd—no. I’ve made up my mind, and packed my trunks for the Continent; and nothing on earth shall alter my determination. TODD. Of course not, my dear—I’m fully aware of the steadiness of your purpose; but might it not be prudent—a—that is—a—advisable, to pause. MRS. T. You know, Todd, I never pause. To-morrow morning, at six, we start! The policeman has promised to ring our bell at five. TODD. Then it’s fixed. (MRS. TODD _goes up_ R. _and crosses at back to_ L.) CROK. (_rises_) Ah! well,—if you will rush on your fate!—I must be going. (C.) Good bye, Laura. (_embraces_ MRS. TODD, L.) MRS. T. (L.) Good bye, dear uncle—good bye!