I cannot say that
Henry was an impostor. He came into existence in a curious way, and I
can think of him now without malice as a child of smoke. The first I
heard of Henry was at Pettigrew's house, which is in a London suburb,
so conveniently situated that I can go there and back in one day. I was
testing some new Cabanas, I remember, when Pettigrew remarked that he
had been lunching with a man who knew my brother Henry. Not having any
brother but Alexander, I felt that Pettigrew had mistaken the name.
"Oh, no," Pettigrew said; "he spoke of Alexander too." Even this did not
convince me, and I asked my host for his friend's name. Scudamour was
the name of the man, and he had met my brothers Alexander and Henry
years before in Paris. Then I remembered Scudamour, and I probably
frowned, for I myself was my own brother Henry. I distinctly recalled
Scudamour meeting Alexander and me in Paris, and calling me Henry,
though my name begins with a J. I explained the mistake to Pettigrew,
and here, for the time being, the matter rested. However, I had by no
means heard the last of Henry.

[Illustration]

Several times afterward I heard from various persons that Scudamour
wanted to meet me because he knew my brother Henry. At last we did meet,
in Jimmy's chambers; and, almost as soon as he saw me, Scudamour asked
where Henry was now. This was precisely what I feared. I am a man who
always looks like a boy. There are few persons of my age in London who
retain their boyish appearance as long as I have done; indeed, this is
the curse of my life. Though I am approaching the age of thirty, I pass
for twenty; and I have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity when
I said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine. There
was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour's remark, that, when he
had the pleasure of meeting Henry, Henry must have been about the age
that I had now reached. All would have been well had I explained the
real state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately for
myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to anybody about anything.
This it is to smoke the Arcadia. When I ring for a time-table and
William John brings coals instead, I accept the coals as a substitute.
Much, then, did I dread a discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when
he heard that I was Henry, and his comments on my youthful appearance.
Besides, I was smoking the best of all mixtures. There was no likelihood
of my meet