in the room that, on another occasion, Andrew would have been
interested to hear the history of.

He could not but know, however, that at present he was to some extent
an intruder, and until he had fully explained his somewhat delicate
business he would not feel at ease.

Though argumentative, Andrew was essentially a shy, proud man.

It was very like Mr. Labouchere to leave him to tell his story in his
own way, only now and then, at the outset, interjecting a humorous
remark, which we here omit.

"I hope," said Andrew earnestly, "that you will not think it fulsome on
my part to say how much I like you. In your public utterances you have
let it be known what value you set on pretty phrases; but I speak the
blunt truth, as you have taught it. I am only a young man, perhaps
awkward and unpolished--"

Here Andrew paused, but as Mr. Labouchere did not say anything he
resumed.

"That as it may be, I should like you to know that your political
speeches have become part of my life. When I was a student it seemed
to me that the Radicalism of so called advanced thinkers was a
half-hearted sham; I had no interest in politics at all until I read
your attack--one of them--on the House of Lords. That day marked an
epoch in my life. I used to read the University library copy of
'Truth' from cover to cover. Sometimes I carried it into the
class-room. That was not allowed. I took it up my waistcoat. In
those days I said that if I wrote a book I would dedicate it to you
without permission, and London, when I came to it, was to me the town
where you lived."

There was a great deal of truth in this; indeed, Mr. Labouchere's
single-hearted enthusiasm--be his politics right or wrong--is well
calculated to fascinate young men.

If it was slightly over-charged, the temptation was great. Andrew was
keenly desirous of carrying his point, and he wanted his host to see
that he was only thinking of his good.

"Well, but what is it you would have me do?" asked Mr. Labouchere, who
often had claimants on his bounty and his autographs.

"I want you," said Andrew eagerly, "to die."

The two men looked hard at each other. There was not even a clock in
the room to break the silence. At last the statesman spoke.

"Why?" he asked.

His visitor sank back in his chair relieved. He had put all his hopes
in the other's common-sense.

It had never failed Mr. Labouchere, and now it promised not to fail
Andrew.

"I am anxious to