speaking of a member of the aristocracy as "one of us" with far less
embarrassment and with as much truth as he could nowadays when he _is_
invited--but still as the oil that never will mix with water. Except in
imagination--an imagination such as I recollect a well-known figure in
literary Bohemia had when I knew it well, a writer of stories for the
popular papers: Society stories, in which a Duke ran away with a
governess, or a Duchess eloped with an artist, each weekly instalment
winding up with a sensational event, so as to carry forward the interest
of the reader. This writer--quite excellent in his way--a thorough
Bohemian, knowing nothing about the Society he wrote about, had the
power of making himself, and sometimes fresh acquaintances, believe that
he played in real life a part in the story he was writing. He did not
refer to the experiences as related by him as incidents in his story,
but as actual events of the day.

[Illustration: "THE DUKE OF BROADACRES."]

"Brandy and soda? Thanks. My dear fellow, I feel a perfect wreck, shaken
to pieces. I had an experience to-day I shall never forget. I have just
arrived from Devonshire; ran down by a night train to look at a hunter
Lord Briarrose wanted to sell me. Bob--that is Briarrose--and I
travelled together. He is going to be married, you know; heiress; great
beauty--neighbour--rolling in wealth. I stopped at the Castle last
night, and before Bob was up I was on the thoroughbred and well over the
country, returning about eleven along the top of the cliffs. To my
horror, I saw a carriage and pair charging down a road which at one time
continued a long distance skirting the cliffs. Cliffs had fallen; road
cut off; unprotected; drop down cliff eight hundred feet on to pointed
rocks and deep sea. There was nothing between the runaway horses and the
cliff, except a storm-broken solitary tree with one branch curved over
the road. When the horses bolted, the groom fell off. There was only a
lady in the carriage, powerless to stop the frightened steeds dashing on
to death. As she approached I was electrified. Something told me she was
Bob's _fiancee_. A moment and I was charging the hunter under that tree.
Jumping up out of the saddle, I clasped the solitary branch with both
hands, and turning as an acrobat would on a trapeze, I hung by my legs,
hands downwards, calling to the lady to clasp them. The fiery steeds and
the oscillating carriage dashed under me--our hands me