"And you want me to tell you who and what Harland Harris is? Is that it? Well, then, I will. To begin with," proceeded Mr. Courtnay Fox, with a baleful light in his small twinkling eyes, "he is a solemn and portentous ass—a pedantic prig—a combination of a drill sergeant and a schoolmaster, with the self-sufficiency of—of—I don’t know what. He is an enormously wealthy man—who preaches the Divine Beauty of Poverty; a socialist—who would abolish the income-tax, and have all taxation indirect; a Communist—who can eat only off gold plate. This sham Jean Jacques would not only abandon his children, he would let the whole human race go to the mischief, as long as you left him on a pinnacle, with a M.S. lecture in his hand. Harland Harris! Do you want to know any more? Well, I will tell you this, that long ago his vanity would have inflated and burst him only that he was defeated in his candidature for the Lord Rectorship of Edinburgh University—and that let out a little of the gas. But even now his inconsistencies are colossal—almost a madness; I think he must be drunk with a sense of his own superiority, as George Sand says—" "He does not seem to have made a very favourable impression on you," said Mr. Bethune slowly and thoughtfully. "Did he ever on any human being?" the other retorted. "Not any one that ever I heard of!" "And his son—do you know anything of him?" Mr. Courtnay Fox was not likely to admit that he knew nothing. "Oh," said he, scornfully, "the _enfant gâté_ of the political world. —— has made a pet of him; and so people imagine there is something in him. Of course he’ll talk for a few years about universal brotherhood and the advancement of humanity and that kind of stuff; and then, when he succeeds to his father’s money, he’ll make a bid for a peerage, or else marry a widowed and withered Countess, and subside into a solid, substantial, beef-headed bulwark of the Tory party. That’s the way they all go!" "Well, I’m very much obliged," said old George Bethune, rising. "And sorry to have interrupted you. Good-night—and thanks." "Good-night," said the journalist, curtly, as he turned to his desk again, and its litter of reports and telegrams. Next morning, when they were about to set forth on their accustomed stroll, Maisrie paused at the door for a second, and said—with a very curious hesitation, and a face grown rose-red— "Grandfather, what shall I tell Mrs. Hobson you would like for dinner?" He did not notice her confusion; he answered, carelessly— "Oh, never mind just now. Later on we will see. Food is not of much importance in this hot weather." Thereafter she was silent for some considerable time. It was not until they had got down to the Serpentine, and when he was about to take out his newspaper, that she ventured again to address him.