He was a man of family! The wife of his bosom was tranquillity itself.

She was enjoying herself.
When not amusing herself by watching Brock's misfortunes, she was napping or reading or sending out for cool drinks.

With all the selfishness of a dutiful wife, she was content to shift responsibilities upon that ever convenient and useful creature--a detached sister.
Brock sent telegrams for her from cities along the way,--Ulm, Munich, Salzburg, and others,--all meant for the real Roxbury in London, but sent to a fictitious being in Great Russell Street, the same having been agreed upon by at least two of the conspirators.

It mattered little that she repeated herself monotonously in regard to the state of health of herself and Tootles.

Roxbury would doubtless enjoy the protracted happiness brought on by these despatches, even though they got him out of bed or missed him altogether until they reached him in a bunch the next day.