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Hope, Anthony, 1863-1933

"The Prisoner of Zenda"

On the whole, my
reception was not so alarming as I had feared. It turned out that I
had done, not what Rose wished, but--the next best thing--what she
prophesied. She had declared that I should make no notes, record no
observations, gather no materials. My brother, on the other hand,
had been weak enough to maintain that a serious resolve had at length
animated me.
When I returned empty-handed, Rose was so occupied in triumphing over
Burlesdon that she let me down quite easily, devoting the greater
part of her reproaches to my failure to advertise my friends of my
whereabouts.
"We've wasted a lot of time trying to find you," she said.
"I know you have," said I. "Half our ambassadors have led weary lives
on my account. George Featherly told me so. But why should you have been
anxious? I can take care of myself."
"Oh, it wasn't that," she cried scornfully, "but I wanted to tell you
about Sir Jacob Borrodaile. You know, he's got an Embassy--at least,
he will have in a month--and he wrote to say he hoped you would go with
him."
"Where's he going to?"
"He's going to succeed Lord Topham at Strelsau," said she. "You couldn't
have a nicer place, short of Paris."
"Strelsau! H'm!" said I, glancing at my brother.
"Oh, _that_ doesn't matter!" exclaimed Rose impatiently.


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