But Mr. Poplington Came Down Like A Shower On My Notions, And Said That
Bath Was Very Warm, And Was The Place Where Everybody Went For Their
Rheumatism In Winter; But That Buxton Was The Place For The Summer,
Because It Was On High Land And Cool.
This cast me down a good deal;
for if we could have gone where I could have steeped my
romanticness, and at the same time Jone could have steeped himself in
warm mineral water, there would not have been any time lost, and both
of us would have been happier. But Mr. Poplington stuck to it that it
would ruin anybody's constitution to go to such a hot place in August,
and so I had to give it up.
So to-morrow we start for Buxton, which, from what I can make out, must
be a sort of invalid picnic ground. I always did hate diseases and
ailments, even of the mildest, when they go in caravan. I like to take
people's sicknesses separate, because then I feel I might do something
to help; but when they are bunched I feel as if it was sort of mean for
me to go about cheerful and singing when other people was all grunting.
But we are not going straight to Buxton. As I have often said, Jone is
a good fellow, and he told me last night if there was any bit of fancy
scenery I'd like to stop on the way to the unromantic refuge he'd be
glad to give me the chance, because he didn't suppose it would matter
much if he put off his hot soaks for a few days.
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