It was very like Mr. Labouchere to leave him to tell his story in his own way, only now and then, at the outset, interjecting a humorous remark, which we here omit. "I hope," said Andrew earnestly, "that you will not think it fulsome on my part to say how much I like you. In your public utterances you have let it be known what value you set on pretty phrases; but I speak the blunt truth, as you have taught it. I am only a young man, perhaps awkward and unpolished--" Here Andrew paused, but as Mr. Labouchere did not say anything he resumed. "That as it may be, I should like you to know that your political speeches have become part of my life. When I was a student it seemed to me that the Radicalism of so called advanced thinkers was a half-hearted sham; I had no interest in politics at all until I read your attack--one of them--on the House of Lords. That day marked an epoch in my life. I used to read the University library copy of 'Truth' from cover to cover. Sometimes I carried it into the class-room. That was not allowed. I took it up my waistcoat. In those days I said that if I wrote a book I would dedicate it to you without permission, and London, when I came to it, was to me the town where you lived." There was a great deal of truth in this; indeed, Mr. Labouchere's single-hearted enthusiasm--be his politics right or wrong--is well calculated to fascinate young men. If it was slightly over-charged, the temptation was great. Andrew was keenly desirous of carrying his point, and he wanted his host to see that he was only thinking of his good. "Well, but what is it you would have me do?" asked Mr. Labouchere, who often had claimants on his bounty and his autographs. "I want you," said Andrew eagerly, "to die." The two men looked hard at each other. There was not even a clock in the room to break the silence. At last the statesman spoke. "Why?" he asked. His visitor sank back in his chair relieved. He had put all his hopes in the other's common-sense. It had never failed Mr. Labouchere, and now it promised not to fail Andrew. "I am anxious to explain that," the young man said glibly. "If you can look at yourself with the same eyes with which you see other people, it won't take long. Make a looking-glass of me, and it is done. "You have now reached a high position in the worlds of politics and literature, to which you have cut your way unaided. "You are a great satirist, combining instruction with amusement, a sort of comic Carlyle. "You hate shams so much that if man had been constructed for it I dare say you would kick at yourself. "You have your enemies, but the very persons who blunt their weapons on you do you the honour of sharpening them on 'Truth.' In short, you have reached the summit of your fame, and you are too keen a man of the world not to know that fame is a touch-and-go thing." Andrew paused. "Go on," said Mr. Labouchere.