"Fvine," assented Urchid, sucking contentedly at his pipe and speaking with the air of a connoisseur.
"It's a fact," said the itinerant photographer reminiscently, "that the exact end-up with which an idea will appeal to a woman is not worth speculating about. On some subjects they have no focal length, so to speak. In my native town there was a prepossessing young lady of seventeen called Irene Violet Maud who suffered extraordinarily from dyspepsia. Her mother took her to a doctor who talked to her all about the subject, explained to her what to do and what not to do, and told her as a particular thing to rest awhile and take it easy after every meal. Now Irene knew that she had indigestion badly and knew that she felt better if she did as he had told her, but because the man had red whiskers and she had wanted to be taken to a certain doctor with a black silky moustache and liquid eyes, she made a point of running briskly up and down three flights of stairs seven times without stopping after breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper. In consequence she's a bit of an apparition now, but when a friend reminded her of those skittish times recently, Irene said that it served Mr. Red Whiskers very well right and she would do it again if there was any occasion."
"Your country has produced some remarkable types, sir," suggested one of the prison warders agreeably, turning to the Tinned-rabbit King.
"Red Indians and—well, buffaloes one used to hear talk of," volunteered the second prison warder with conscious diffidence.
"Why certainly, sir, we have our share," admitted the American millionaire with bluff good-humour. "As far as that goes, there was my own aunt Janet now, as resourceful, matter-of-fact kind of woman, who would shoot a horse-thief in the morning, darn her father's
