el's complexion.) By the time I went to bed
I was prepared to sink the Upper Amazons in the sea, and to stab,
shoot, poison, or otherwise seriously damage the man with the
concession and the false eyebrows.

For the next three days, at intervals, he returned to the charge. He
bored me to death with his platinum and his rubies. He didn't want a
capitalist who would personally exploit the thing; he would prefer
to do it all on his own account, giving the capitalist preference
debentures of his bogus company, and a lien on the concession. I
listened and smiled; I listened and yawned; I listened and was rude;
I ceased to listen at all; but still he droned on with it. I fell
asleep on the steamer one day, and woke up in ten minutes to hear
him droning yet, "And the yield of platinum per ton was certified
to be--" I forget how many pounds, or ounces, or pennyweights.
These details of assays have ceased to interest me: like the man
who "didn't believe in ghosts," I have seen too many of them.

The fresh-faced little curate and his wife, however, were quite
different people. He was a cricketing Oxford man; she was a breezy
Scotch lass, with a wholesome breath of the Highlands about her. I
called her "White Heather." Their name was Brabazon. Millionaires
are so accustomed to being beset by harpies of every description,
that when they come across a young couple who are simple and
natural, they delight in the purely human relation. We picnicked
and went excursions a great deal with the honeymooners. They were
so frank in their young love, and so proof against chaff, that we
all really liked them. But whenever I called the pretty girl "White
Heather," she looked so shocked, and cried: "Oh, Mr. Wentworth!"
Still, we were the best of friends. The curate offered to row us in
a boat on the lake one day, while the Scotch lassie assured us she
could take an oar almost as well as he did. However, we did not
accept their offer, as row-boats exert an unfavourable influence
upon Amelia's digestive organs.

"Nice young fellow, that man Brabazon," Sir Charles said to me one
day, as we lounged together along the quay; "never talks about
advowsons or next presentations. Doesn't seem to me to care two pins
about promotion. Says he's quite content in his country curacy;
enough to live upon, and needs no more; and his wife has a little, a
very little, money. I asked him about his poor to-day, on purpose to
test him: these parsons are always try