--"

"Oh! will you write a book?" she cried, clapping her hands. "That would
be splendid, wouldn't it, Robert?"

"It's the best of introductions to political life nowadays," observed my
brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in this manner several
times over. _Burlesdon on Ancient Theories and Modern Facts_ and _The
Ultimate Outcome, by a Political Student_, are both works of recognized
eminence.

"I believe you are right, Bob, my boy," said I.

"Now promise you'll do it," said Rose earnestly.

"No, I won't promise; but if I find enough material, I will."

"That's fair enough," said Robert.

"Oh, material doesn't matter!" she said, pouting.

But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise out of me.
To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome sum that the story
of my expedition that summer would stain no paper and spoil not a single
pen. And that shows how little we know what the future holds; for here I
am, fulfilling my qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought
to write, a book--though it will hardly serve as an introduction to
political life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.

Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to submit it
to her critical eye--a step which I have no intention of taking.

CHAPTER 2

Concerning the Colour of Men's Hair

It was a maxim of my Uncle William's that no man should pass through
Paris without spending four-and-twenty hours there. My uncle spoke out
of a ripe experience of the world, and I honoured his advice by putting
up for a day and a night at "The Continental" on my way to--the Tyrol.
I called on George Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner
together at Durand's, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and
after that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram
Bertrand, a versifier of some repute and Paris correspondent to _The
Critic_. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we found some
pleasant fellows smoking and talking. It struck me, however, that
Bertram himself was absent and in low spirits, and when everybody except
ourselves had gone, I rallied him on his moping preoccupation. He
fenced with me for a while, but at last, flinging himself on a sofa, he
exclaimed:

"Very well; have it your own way. I am in love--infernally in love!"

"Oh, you'll write the better poetry," said I, by way of consolation.

He ruffled his hair with his hand and smoked furio