"What do you wish me to tell you about?" he said in answer to repeated
requests for him to begin, from several young ladies.

"Oh, tell us a story of second sight, and spiritualism, and all that,
you know," replied a young lady with a doll's face and simpering manner.

"You promised you would," said another.

"True, I promised, but not to-day. This Christmas Day is like Sunday to
you English folk, and I do not wish to mar its sacredness."

"Oh, the Sunday part of it is all ended at twelve o'clock," cried the
young lady who had spoken first. "As soon as church is over we commence
our fun. Do, Mr. Voltaire; we shall be disappointed if you don't."

"I cannot resist the ladies," he said, with a smile, "but you must not
be frightened at my story. For, remember, what I tell you is true. I do
not weave this out of my own brain like your average English novelist
has to do."

I fancied this was directed at me. Not that I deserved the appellation.
I had written only one novel, and that was a very poor one. Still I
fancied I saw his light glittering eyes turned in my direction.

"I must make a sort of apology, too," he went on. "Many of you do not
believe in what will be the very marrow of my story."

"Come, Voltaire, never mind apologies," said Tom Temple; "we are all
anxious to hear it."