One of the things which arouse envy, hatred, and malice in the hearts of the unregenerate at this time of the year is seeing off friends for the Continent while we know we are staying at home.
They may be the nicest of friends, and we wish them nothing but well, we hope they will enjoy their holiday, and we shall be glad to see them again, but envy fills our hearts as the boat train begins to consider slipping quietly and unobtrusively out of the station, and the inevitable late passenger tears down the platform, with a porter panting at his heels, and throws himself into his carriage.
The hatred and malice, which I throw in for good measure, says "Pandora," are not really aroused, for we certainly do not hate Jane or Uncle George or whoever it may be, but we have an idea that they are feeling a bit above themselves over going abroad, and we resent it. Probably we ourselves have done the same, and we have inspired similar feelings in the breasts of those who kindly came to see us off, bearing magazines, or buttonholes for our coats (usually forgetting the pin so that we hold the posy inanely in our hands waiting for someone to proffer help).
However, to go back to the travellers. They, poor dears, are not responsible for our having to stay at home while they steam away towards Egypt, Italy, or even Cyprus, that lovely island which is rather in the public eye at the moment. It is not their fault that the sight of the bloc! boards with the names of Blue Tr: Golden Arrow, etc, and of the luggage with its interesting labels, fills us with a sort of homesickness. Even to see the slim girls in trousers and jumpers connected with the skiing centres, makes us feel that the travellers are going into another world than ours of the moment.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.