Mr. Eugene Wobbles, who tried to live down his American ancestry in
London clubs and was, consequently, more British than any
Englishman, came to Mr. Courtney lazily apologetic.

"I fancy I'm going to give you a lot of bother, my dear Courtney,"
he observed, lounging feebly against the porch rail.

"I prefer bother to almost anything," returned his host pleasantly;
"it gives me something to do."

"Rather clever that," laughed Eugene, swinging his monocle with one
hand and stroking his drooping yellow mustache with the other.
"Really I never thought of bother in that way before. Keeps one
bothered, I think you said," and he gazed out over the broad lawn
where the young people were noisily congregating, in pleasant
contemplation of Courtney's wonderful new philosophy.

"What is this particular bother?" gently suggested Courtney after a
pause.

"Oh, yes," responded Eugene, "we were discussing that, weren't we?
I've a rotten memory; but my oldest brother, Tommy, can't even
remember his middle initial. Pretty good that, don't you think;
Tommy is a perfect ass in every respect." And idly considering
Tommy's perfection as an ass, he turned and gazed down into the
ravine where Courtney had built some attractive little waterfalls
and cave paths. "About how deep should you say it was down there,
Courtney?"