The Prisoner of Zenda Read Free Page A

practice to furnish my relatives with an itinerary of my journeys and in this case I anticipated opposition to my wishes, I gave out that I was going for a ramble in the Tyrol—an old haunt of mine—and propitiated Rose’s wrath by declaring that I intended to study the political and social problems of the interesting community which dwells in that neighbourhood.
    â€œPerhaps,” I hinted darkly, “there may be an outcome of the expedition.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” she asked.
    â€œWell,” said I carelessly, “there seems a gap that might be filled by an exhaustive work on—”
    â€œOh! will you write a book?” she cried, clapping her hands. “That would be splendid, wouldn’t it, Robert?”
    â€œIt’s the best of introductions to political life nowadays,” observed my brother, who has, by the way, introduced himself in this manner several times over.
Burlesdon on Ancient Theories and Modern Facts
and
The Ultimate Outcome, by a Political Student
, are both works of recognized eminence.
    â€œI believe you are right, Bob, my boy,” said I.
    â€œNow promise you’ll do it,” said Rose earnestly.
    â€œNo, I won’t promise; but if I find enough material, I will.”
    â€œThat’s fair enough,” said Robert.
    â€œOh, material doesn’t matter!” she said, pouting.
    But this time she could get no more than a qualified promise out of me. To tell the truth, I would have wagered a handsome sum that the story of my expedition that summer would stain no paper and spoil not a single pen. And that shows how little we know what the future holds; for here I am, fulfilling my qualified promise, and writing, as I never thought to write, a book—though it will hardly serve as an introduction to political life, and has not a jot to do with the Tyrol.
    Neither would it, I fear, please Lady Burlesdon, if I were to submit it to her critical eye—a step which I have no intention of taking.

CHAPTER 2
Concerning the Colour of Men’s Hair
    It was a maxim of my Uncle William’s that no man should pass through Paris without spending four-and-twenty hours there. My uncle spoke out of a ripe experience of the world, and I honoured his advice by putting up for a day and a night at “The Continental” on my way to—the Tyrol. I called on George Featherly at the Embassy, and we had a bit of dinner together at Durand’s, and afterwards dropped in to the Opera; and after that we had a little supper, and after that we called on Bertram Bertrand, a versifier of some repute and Paris correspondent to
The Critic
. He had a very comfortable suite of rooms, and we found some pleasant fellows smoking and talking. It struck me, however, that Bertram himself was absent and in low spirits, and when everybody except ourselves had gone, I rallied him on his moping preoccupation. He fenced with me for a while, but at last, flinging himself on a sofa, he exclaimed:
    â€œVery well; have it your own way. I am in love—infernally in love!”
    â€œOh, you’ll write the better poetry,” said I, by way of consolation.
    He ruffled his hair with his hand and smoked furiously. George Featherly, standing with his back to the mantelpiece, smiled unkindly.
    â€œIf it’s the old affair,” said he, “you may as well throw it up, Bert. She’s leaving Paris tomorrow.”
    â€œI know that,” snapped Bertram.
    â€œNot that it would make any difference if she stayed,” pursued the relentless George. “She flies higher than the paper trade, my boy!”
    â€œHang her!” said Bertram.
    â€œIt would make it more interesting for me,” I ventured to observe, “if I knew who you were talking about.”
    â€œAntoinette Mauban,” said George.
    â€œDe Mauban,” growled Bertram.
    â€œOho!” said I, passing by the question of the ‘de’. “You don’t