ery. From the
dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up at dinner and watch the
old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped mountain. You would not say
then of strawberries: "I hate them." Or of anything else in all the
world.

A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled
along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at
attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops I saw
a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for climbing, I
paused to look them over. I had been at this only a moment when a young
Englishman stepped up and also began examining the sticks.

I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to find
the shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke. He was lean,
distinguished-looking, though quite young, and had that well-tubbed
appearance which I am convinced is the great factor that has enabled the
English to assert their authority over colonies like Egypt and India,
where men are not so thoroughly bathed.

"Er--if you'll pardon me, old chap," he said. "Not that stick--if you
don't mind my saying so. It's not tough enough for mountain work. I
would suggest--"

To say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. If you know the
English at all, you know it is not their habit to address strangers,
even under the most pressing circumstances. Yet here was one of that
haughty race actually interfering in my selection of a stick. I ended
by buying the one he preferred, and he strolled along with me in the
direction of my hotel, chatting meantime in a fashion far from British.

We stopped at the Kursaal, where we listened to the music, had a drink
and threw away a few francs on the little horses. He came with me to the
veranda of my hotel. I was surprised, when he took his leave, to find
that he regarded me in the light of an old friend. He said he would call
on me the next morning.

I made up my mind that Archibald Enwright--for that, he told me, was
his name--was an adventurer down on his luck, who chose to forget
his British exclusiveness under the stern necessity of getting money
somehow, somewhere. The next day, I decided, I should be the victim of a
touch.

But my prediction failed; Enwright seemed to have plenty of money. On
that first evening I had mentioned to him that I expected shortly to be
in London, and he often referred to the fact. As the time approached
for me to leave Interlaken he began to throw out the su