'Ah!' said Dowler, 'going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night.
Windy; isn't it?'
'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Good-night.'
'Good-night.'
Mr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler
resumed his seat before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise
to sit up till his wife came home.
There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody,
especially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help
thinking how quickly the time passes with them, which drags so
heavily with you; and the more you think of this, the more your
hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud, too,
when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an
under-garment of cobwebs on. First, something tickles your
right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your left. You
have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again in the
arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer
shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as
if to rub it off--as there is no doubt you would, if you could.
Eyes, too, are mere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one
candle gets an inch and a half long, while you are snuffing the
other.
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