The Club of Queer Trades
"His greatest virtue," replied Basil, "is that he always tells the literal truth."
"Well, really," cried Rupert, stamping about between cold and anger, and slapping himself like a cabman, "he doesn't seem to have been very literal or truthful in this case, nor you either. Why the deuce, may I ask, have you brought us out to this infernal place?"
"He was too truthful, I confess," said Basil, leaning against the tree—"too hardly veracious, too severely accurate. He should have indulged in a little more suggestiveness and legitimate romance. But come, it's time we went in. We shall be late for dinner."
Rupert whispered to me, with a white face: "Is it a hallucination, do you think? Does he really fancy he sees a house?"
"I suppose so," I said. Then I added, aloud, in what was meant to be a cheery and sensible voice, but which sounded in my ears almost as strange as the wind:
"Come, come, Basil, my dear fellow. Where do you want us to go?"
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