‘My good friend the Begum of the Cannibal Islands has more than she knows what to do with; and she owes me a good turn, you know.’
‘What are you jesting about now?’
‘Did I never tell you? The new king of the Cannibal Islands, just like your European ones, ran away, and would neither govern himself nor let any one else govern; so one morning his ministers, getting impatient, ate him, and then asked my advice. I recommended them to put his mother on the throne, who, being old and tough, would run less danger; and since then everything has gone on smoothly as anywhere else.’
‘Are you mad?’ thought Lancelot to himself, as he stared at the speaker’s matter-of-fact face.
‘No, I am not mad, my young friend,’ quoth he, facing right round upon him, as if he had divined his thoughts.
‘I—I beg your pardon, I did not speak,’ stammered Lancelot, abashed at a pair of eyes which could have looked down the boldest mesmerist in three seconds.
‘I am perfectly well aware that you did not. I must have some talk with you: I’ve heard a good deal about you. You wrote those articles in the --- Review about George Sand, did you not?’
‘I did.’
‘Well, there was a great deal of noble feeling in them, and a great deal of abominable nonsense. You seem to be very anxious to reform society?’
‘I am.’