“Excuse my interrupting you one moment, but I was going in here to have my hair cut. If you’re not in a particular hurry, perhaps you’ll come in with me, and I think I can show you where you are wrong.” “Yes--no, I’m not in a hurry; come along, I’m convinced there’s a mistake in your theory which upsets your whole argument--merely subject to the common analysing process----” “By the way,” observed Bracy carelessly, “you’d be all the better for a little judicious trimming yourself; besides, it’s more sociable. This gentleman and I each want our hair cut. Sit down, Frere.” “Eh? nonsense; I never have my hair cut except when the hot weather sets in,” remonstrated that individual; but he was fairly in the toils. Bracy set a garrulous hairdresser’s man at him, who deprived him of his hat, popped him down in the appointed chair, and enveloped him in a blue-striped wrapper before he very well knew where he was, or had arrived at any kind of decision whatsoever on the subject. No sooner was he seated than Bracy administered a fresh dose of his anaesthetic agent; Frere resumed his argument, and long ere he had exhausted the catalogue of chemical tests to which his opponent’s theory (invented for the occasion) might be subjected, the hair-cutter (previously instructed) had reduced his hair and whiskers to the latitude and longitude usually assigned to such capillary attractions by the “manners and customs of ye English in ye nineteenth century.” And thus Frere became, for the time being, a reasonable looking mortal, and Bracy won a new hat, which he had betted that morning with a mutual acquaintance, on the apparently rash speculation that he would before the day was over administer an anaesthetic agent to Richard Frere, under the influence of which he should have his hair cut. CHAPTER XXXVIII.--DESCRIBES THE HUMOURS OF A LONDON DINNER-PARTY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.