Indians closing in from every corner of ze Far Vest for our
scalps!"

He was, in many ways, the most accomplished man that Florence had
ever known. He was a violinist, a singer, a poet, and yet these
were but a part of his various gifts; for in everything out of
doors he was no less a master and took the first place as though
by right. He was the embodiment of everything daring and manly; it
seemed natural for him to excel; he simply did not know what fear
was. He was always ready to smile and turn a little joke, whether
speeding in his automobile at a breakneck pace or ballooning above
the clouds in search of what was to him the breath of life: "ze
sensation." He could never see a new form of "ze sensation"
without running for it like a child for a new toy. His whole
attitude towards the world was that of a furious curiosity. He
could not bear to leave it, he said, until all he had learned how
all the wheels went round. He had stood on the Matterhorn. He had
driven the Sud express. He had exhausted lions and tigers. In
moods of depression he would threaten to follow Andree to the pole
and figure out his plans on the back of an envelope.

"Magnificent!" he would cry, growing instantly cheerful at the
prospect. "Think of ze sensation!"

He spoke English fluently, though shaky on the TH and the W, and
it was first hand and not mentally translated. His pronunciation
of Far West, two words that were constantly on his lips, was an
endless entertainment to Florence, and out of a sense of humour
she forebore to correct him. It was typical, indeed, of his
ignorance of everything American. Europe was at his fingers' ends;