[…] when men come together to profess a creed, they come courageously, though it is to hide in catacombs and caves. But when they come together in a clique they come sneakishly, eschewing all change or disagreement, though it is to dine to a brass band in a big London hotel.

And now as other Fawkners use, I spring a mistresse, sweare, write, sigh and weepe: And the game kill'd, or lost, goe talk, and sleepe.

An example will best make the matter clear, and throw light, perhaps, on many cases of apparently mysterious rustings.

My brother, quiet as a cat, seems perfectly contented with the internal feelings of his felicity. The Marquis, mad as a kitten, is all in motion to express it, from tongue to heel.