"Nothing English is good enough for the English,"--he said--"Things have to be imported from France to please the people whom the French themselves angrily designate as 'perfide Albion.' You must not have a 'Bill of Fare'; you must have a 'Menu'; and all your dishes must bear French titles, otherwise they will not be in good form. You must have French 'comediennes' and 'danseuses' to please the British taste, and your silken draperies must be woven on French looms. Lately too, it has been deemed necessary to import Parisian morality as well as Parisian fashions. It does not suit stalwart Great Britain at all, you know,--stalwart Great Britain, aping the manners of Paris, looks like a jolly open-faced, sturdy-limbed Giant, with a doll's bonnet stuck on his leonine head. But the doll's bonnet is just now _la mode_. Some day I believe the Giant will discover it looks ridiculous, and cast it off with a burst of genuine laughter at his own temporary folly. And without it, he will resume his original dignity;--the dignity that best becomes a privileged conqueror who has the sea for his standing-army." "Evidently you like England!" I said smiling. He laughed. "Not in the very least! I do not like England any more than any other country on the globe. I do not like the globe itself; and England comes in for a share of my aversion as one of the spots on the trumpery ball. If I could have my way, I should like to throne myself on a convenient star for the purpose and kick out at Earth as she whirls by in space, hoping by that act of just violence to do away with her for ever!" "But why?" I asked, amused--"Why do you hate the Earth? What has the poor little planet done to merit your abhorrence?" He looked at me very strangely. "Shall I tell you? You will never believe me!" "No matter for that!" I answered smiling--"Say on!"