s country somehow.
Eh?"

The Collector laughed. "But the price, Major? That is where it hits
us, even in the matter of tulips. War is a terrible business."

"It has been called the sport of kings," answered the Major, crossing
his legs with an air of careless greatness, and looking more like the
Prince Regent than ever.

"I have sometimes wondered, being of a reflective turn, on the--er--
far-reaching consequences of events which, to the casual eye, might
appear insignificant. An infant is born in the remote island of
Corsica. Years roll on, and we find our gardens denuded of a bulb,
the favourite habitat of which must lie at least eight hundred miles
from Corsica as the crow flies. How unlikely was it, sir, that you
or I, considering these tulips with what I may perhaps call our
finite intelligence--"

"Step around, Mr. Collector, and have a look at them. You can unfold
your argument over a glass of wine, if you will do me that pleasure."
The Major had a high opinion of Mr. Pennefather's conversation; he
was accustomed to say that it made you think.

"If you are sure, sir, it will not incommode you?"

"Not in the least. I expect Hansombody will join us presently.
Scipio, bring out the brown sherry."

Now the Major had not invited Dr. Hansombody; yet that he expected
him is no less certain than that, while he spoke, Dr. Hansombody was
actually lifting the knocker of the front door.

How did this happen? The Major--so used was he to the phenomenon--
accepted it as a matter of course. Hansombody (good soul!) had a
wonderful knack of turning up when wanted. But what attracted him?
Was it perchance that magnetic force of will which our Major, and all
truly great men, unconsciously exert? No; the explanation was a
simpler one, though the Major would have been inexpressibly shocked
had he suspected it.

Miss Marty and Dr. Hansombody were mutually enamoured.

They never told their love. To acknowledge it nakedly to one
another--nay, even to themselves--had been treason. What?
Could Miss Marty disturb the comfort, could her swain destroy the
confidence, could they together forfeit the esteem, of their common
hero? In converse they would hymn antiphonally his virtues, his
graces of mind and person; even as certain heathen fanatics, wounding
themselves in honour of their idol, will drown the pain by loud
clashings of cymbals.

They never told their love, and yet, as the old song says:

"But if ne