Nothing Particular Happens to Sir Roger Bloxam in Switzerland; So Why Worry?

If two and a half years in — that word Porphyria Poppoea uses after too much dinner too unwise — doesn't destroy a man's sense of humour, it is probably time for him to die. When poison has has merely the effect of laughing gas, there must be something radically wrong with the gassed. To proceed: Sir Roger Bloxam enjoyed himself thoroughly in Switzerland. The Cardinal never bothered him in such places. He doesn't know to this day why he doesn't like the Swiss, who were always perfectly charming to him. I refuse to describe glaciers, and all that sort of thing; I shall not tell of Sir Roger's adventures on the mountains. The whole subject bores me utterly; I'm sorry I ever brought it in. He wasn't consumptive; he never met a Maiden; he never had an accident; what in the name of the Master of any College, and of my beloved Umfraville, who pantamorphopsychonosophilographer that he is, writes a complete novel without introducing a single incident of any kind — I refer to The Buffoon — what, I say, is the use of going on? This is worse than Clayhanger and Hilda Lessways and that third pole-axe sequel — God knows I never knew its name — bound in one ghastly volume.

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