The House of Baltazar. William John Locke

strikes me as being the most marvellous vehicle for the propaganda of civilization that the world has seen.”

      “Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, “it is not in our contract to care one little tuppenny damn for the propaganda of civilization. You’re not going to waste your time at one of those futile and ill-conceived, although ingenious, entertainments for the next three years. If the particular region I have in view is not satisfactory, we shall find another.”

      Presently he added, in a tone of compunction—he was dressing while Quong Ho packed:

      “I’m sorry I’ve had to cut short the time I intended you to have in London. I badly wanted you to have some general idea of it.”

      “Sir,” replied Quong Ho, “without wishing to boast, I have grasped London. I could find my way blindfolded from here to the Tower, the House of Parliaments, the North End Road, Fulham, and that imperishable objective record of your honourable nation’s history, the museum of Madame Tussaud.”

      “All the points you have mentioned, Quong Ho,” said Baltazar, “are of undoubted value—except the North End Road, Fulham. What the devil could you find of interest in that drab region of nowhere?”

      Quong Ho’s usually smiling and mobile face became an expressionless mask.

      “It marked the end of my peregrination in that direction,” he replied.

      “It strikes me,” said Baltazar, “that it’s time you peregrinated to a more God-swept and intellectual atmosphere.”

      Three weeks afterwards they took up their residence at Spendale Farm.