Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. "Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Oh! that I should live to be father-in-law to a peer of France! What would my poor wife say to it, if she could come to life again? Oh, Thames!—my lord marquis, I mean—you have made me the happiest—the proudest of mankind.
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