In another history, called "The Holy Flower," I have told how I came to
England with a young gentleman of the name of Scroope, partly to see him
safely home after a hunting accident, and partly to try to dispose of
a unique orchid for a friend of mine called Brother John by the white
people, and Dogeetah by the natives, who was popularly supposed to be
mad, but, in fact, was very sane indeed. So sane was he that he pursued
what seemed to be an absolutely desperate quest for over twenty years,
until, with some humble assistance on my part, he brought it to a
curiously successful issue. But all this tale is told in "The Holy
Flower," and I only allude to it here, that is at present, to explain
how I came to be in England.

While in this country I stayed for a few days with Scroope, or, rather,
with his fiancée and her people, at a fine house in Essex. (I called it
Essex to avoid the place being identified, but really it was one of the
neighbouring counties.) During my visit I was taken to see a much finer
place, a splendid old castle with brick gateway towers, that had been
wonderfully well restored and turned into a most luxurious modern
dwelling. Let us call it "Ragnall," the seat of a baron of that name.

I had heard a good deal about Lord Ragnall, who, according to all
accounts, seemed a kind of Admirable Crichton. He was said to be
wonderfully handsome, a great scholar--he had taken a double first at
college; a great athlete--he had been captain of the Oxford boat at the
University race; a very promising speaker who had already made his mark
in the House of Lords; a sportsman who had shot tigers and other large
game in India; a poet who had published a successful volume of verse