The Major, glancing up as he sipped his Madeira and catching sight of
Mr. Pennefather at his window, nodded affably.
"Ah! Good evening, Mr. Collector!"
"Good evening, Major! You'll excuse my seeming rudeness in
overlooking you. To tell the truth, I had just closed my books, and
the sight of your tulips--"
"A fair show this year--eh?" The Major took pride in his tulips.
"Magnificent! I was wondering how you will manage when the bulbs
deteriorate; for, of course, there's no renewing them from Holland,
nor any prospect of it while this war lasts."
The Major sipped his wine. "Between ourselves, Mr. Collector, I have
heard that forbidden goods find their way into this country somehow.
Eh?"
The Collector laughed. "But the price, Major? That is where it hits
us, even in the matter of tulips. War is a terrible business."
"It has been called the sport of kings," answered the Major, crossing
his legs with an air of careless greatness, and looking more like the
Prince Regent than ever.
"I have sometimes wondered, being of a reflective turn, on the--er--
far-reaching consequences of events which, to the casual eye, might
appear insignificant. An infant is born in the remote island of
Corsica. Years roll on, and we find our gardens denuded of a bulb,
the favourite habitat of which must lie at least eight hundred miles
from Corsica as the crow flies. How unlikely was it, sir, that you
or I, considering these tulips with what I may perhaps call our
finite intelligence--"
"Step around, Mr.
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