"I thought I was alone, and gave vent to
the feelings of the moment."
Colonel Bunnion stretched himself and joined me.
"That's the worst of this place," he said. "It's so liverish. One lolls
about and sleeps all day long, and one's liver gets like a Strasburg
goose's and plays Old Harry with one's temper. Why one should come here
when there are pheasants to be shot in England, I don't know."
"Neither your liver nor your temper seem to be much affected, Colonel,"
said I, "for you've been violently awakened from a sweet sleep and are
in a most amiable frame of mind."
He laughed, suggested exercise, the Briton's panacea for all ills, and
took me for a walk. When we returned at dusk, and after I had had tea
before the fire (for December evenings in Algiers are chilly) in one of
the pretty Moorish alcoves of the lounge, my good humour was restored. I
viewed our pursuit of Captain Vauvenarde in its right aspect--that of
a veritable Snark-Hunt of which I was the Bellman--and the name "Lola"
curled itself round my heart with the same grateful sensation of comfort
as the warm China tea.
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