and deserving
persons, and brought myself into an enviable condition of glowing
philanthropy.

To my great relief the Wymington committee have adopted Dale as their
candidate at the by-election. He can scarcely contain himself for joy.
He is like a child who has been told that he shall be taken to the
seaside. I believe he lies awake all night thinking how he will make
things hum.

The other side have chosen Wilberforce, who unsuccessfully contested the
Ferney division of Wiltshire at the last general election. He is old and
ugly. Dale is young and beautiful. I think Dale will get in.

I have said good-bye to Lola. The astonishing woman burst into tears
and kissed my hands and said something about my being the arbiter of
her destiny--a Gallic phrase which she must have picked up from Captain
Vauvenarde. Then she buried her face in the bristling neck of Adolphus,
the Chow dog, and declared him to be her last remaining consolation.
Even Anastasius Papadopoulos had ceased to visit her. I uttered words of
comfort.

"I have left you Dale at any rate."

She smiled enigmatically through her tears.

"I'm not ungrateful. I don't despise the crumbs."

Which remark, now that I come to think of it, was not flattering to my
young friend.

But what is the use of thinking of it? My fire is burning low. It is
time I ended this portion of my "Rule and Example of Eumoiriety," which,
I fear, has not followed the philosophic line I originally intended.

The die is cast. My things are packed. Rogers, who likes his British
beef and comforts, is resigned to the prospect of Continental travel,
and has gone to bed hours ago. There is no more soda water in the
siphon. I must go to bed.

Paris to-morrow.

CHAPTER X

"Ay!" says Touchstone; "now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was
at home I was in a better place."

Now am I in Algiers; the more fool I; et cetera, et cetera.

It is true that from my bedroom window in the Albany I cannot see
the moon silvering the Mediterranean, or hear the soft swish of
pepper-trees; it is true that oranges and eucalyptus do not flourish
in the Albany Court-yard as they do in this hotel garden at Mustapha
Superieur; it is true that the blue African sky and sunshine are more
agreeable than Piccadilly fogs; but, after all, his own kennel is
best for a dying dog, and his own familiar surroundings best for his
declining hours. Again, Touchstone had not the faintest idea what he was
going