he proposes some far-a-field journey. "What!" he exclaims, in a tone of commiseration; "got a bad cold! Why not trot over to Cairo? The trip would do you worlds of good." I return: "No doubt it would, but I havn't the time." At the mere suggestion of "everyone's enemy," Saxonhurst roars with laughter. He is no slave to be bound by time. He has mapped out any number of pleasant little excursions that can be carried out satisfactorily during that period known to railway companies (chiefly August and September) as "the week's end." He has discovered that within four-and-twenty hours you can thoroughly "do" France, and within twice that time make yourself absolutely conversant with the greater part of Spain. So when he tells me that I want "a blow over" to the other side of the Channel, I know that he is proposing no lengthy proceedings.

"About twenty minutes or so on the continent will soon set you to rights," continues Saxonhurst, in a tone of conviction. "Just you trust to the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and they will pull you through. Keep your eye on the 9 A.M. Express from Victoria and you will never regret it."

Farther conversation proved to me that it was well within the resources of modern civilization to breakfast comfortably in Belgravia, lunch sumptuously at Calais, and be back in time for a cup of (literally) five o'clock tea at South Kensington. Within eight hours one could travel to the coast, cross the silver streak twice, call upon the Gallic douane, test the cuisine of the buffet attached to the Hôtel Terminus, and attend officially Mrs. Anybody's "last Any-day." It seemed to be a wonderful feat, and yet when I came to perform it, it was as easy as possible.

There is no deception at 9 A.M. every morning at the Victoria Station. A sign-post points out the Dover Boat Express, and tells you at the same time whether you are to have the French-flagged services of the Invicta and the Victoria, or sail under the red ensign of the Calais-Douvres. Personally, I prefer the latter, as I fancy it is the fastest of the speedy trio. Near to the board of information is a document heavy with fate. In it you can learn whether the sea is to be "smooth," "light," "moderate," or "rather rough." If you find that your destiny is one of the two last mentioned, make up your mind for breezy weather, with its probable consequences. Of course, if you can face the steward with cheerful unconcern in a hurricane, you will have nothing to fear. But if you find it necessary to take chloral before embarking (say) on the Serpentine in a dead calm, then beware of the trail of the tempest, and the course of the coming storm. If a man who is obliged to go on insists that "it will be all right," take care, and beware. "Trust him not," as the late Longfellow poetically suggested, as it is quite within the bounds of possibility that he may be "fooling thee." But if the meteorological report points to "set fair," then away with all idle apprehensions, and hie for the first-class smoking compartment, that stops not until it gets to Dover pier, for the pause at Herne Hill scarcely counts for anything.

As you travel gaily along through the suburbs of Surrey and the hops of Kent, you have just time to glance from your comfortable cushioned seat at "beautiful Battersea," "salubrious Shortlands," "cheerful Chatham," "smiling Sittingbourne," "favoured (junction for Dover and Ramsgate) Faversham," and last, but not least, "cathedral-cherishing Canterbury." You hurry through the quaint old streets of "the Key to Brompton" (I believe that is the poetical plus strategical designation of the most warlike of our cinque ports), and in two twos you are on board the Calais-Douvres, bound for the buffet of buffets, the pride of the caterer's craft, or rather (to avoid possible misapprehension) his honourable calling. The Channel is charming. This marvellous twenty miles of water is as wayward as a woman. At one time it will compel the crews of the steamers to appear in complete suits of oil-skin; at another it is as smooth as a billiard-table, and twice as smiling. The report at Victoria has not been misleading. We are to have a pleasant, and consequently prosperous passage.

On board I find a goodly company of lunchers. Mr. Recorder Bunny, Q.C., sedate and silent—once the terror of thieves of all classes, and ruffians of every degree, now partly in retreat. Then there is the MacStorm, C.B., warrior and novelist. Foreign affairs are represented by MM. Bonhommie and De Czarville, excellent fellows both, and capable correspondents in London. Then there are a host of celebrities. Dicky Hogarth, the caricaturist; Samuel Steele Sheridan, the dramatist; and Shakspeare Johnson Cockaigne, the man of literary all-work.

"It is very fine this to me when therefore I come out why," observes an Italian explorer, who has the reputation of speaking five-and-twenty languages fluently, and is particularly proud of his English.

"Certainly," I answer promptly, because my friend is a little irritable, and still believes in the possibilities of the duello.

"Therefore maybe you find myself when I am not placed which was consequently forwards." And with this the amiable explorer from the sunny south, no doubt believing that he has been imparting information of the most valuable character, relapses into a smiling silence.

In the course of the voyage I find that, if I pleased, I could wait until a quarter to four, and then return to my native shores. This would give me more than three hours in Calais. But what should I do with them?

"You might go to the Old Church," says Mr. Recorder Bunny, Q.C., "which was an English place of worship in the time of Queen Mary. Some of the chapels are still dedicated to English Saints, and there are various other memorials of the British occupation."

"Or you can go to the plage," puts in the MacStorm. "Great fun in fine weather. Whole families pic-nic on the sands. They feed under tents or in chalets. In the water all day long, except at meal-times. At night they retire, I think, to a little collection of timber-built villas, planted in a neatly-kept square. The whole thing rather suggestive of Alexander Selkirk plus an unlimited supply of a quarter-inch deal flooring, canvas, and cardboard."

In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine to go no further than the buffet. Acting under the instructions of Mr. Recorder Bunny, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well, I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders. A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysée, takes me in hand. We make out a menu on the spot—Melon, tête de veau à la vinaigrette, caneton aux petits pois, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a café and chasse. All good. Then the garçon skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise the performer—if he wishes it—a prosperous career on the lofty trapèze), are