'The famous Fisher.' Indeed, sir, I assure you, your name is a household word in Scotland.”      

       I choose Scotland because I know its accent is different from English. My own also is different. Therefore I shall be Scotch. Unhappy selection!     

       “Do you mean to pretend you are Scotch?” says Fisher, frowning as well as breathing at me.     

       I must withdraw one foot.     

       “Half Scotch, half Italian,” I reply.     

       Ah, France, why did I deny you? I was afraid to own you, I blush to confess it. And I was righteously punished.     

       “Italian?” says he, with more interest. “Ah, indeed!”      

  

       He stares more intently, frowns more portentously, and respires more loudly than ever.     

       “A charming country,” I say.     

       “No doubt,” says Fisher.     

       At this moment the door opens behind him and a lady appears. She has a puffy cheek, a pale eye, a comfortable figure, a curled fringe of gray hair, and slightly projecting teeth; in a word, the mate of Fisher. There can be no mistake, and I am quick to seize the chance.     

       “My dear Mrs. Fisher!” I exclaim, advancing towards her.     

       With a movement like a hippopotamus wallowing, Fisher places himself between us. Does he think I have come to elope with her?     

       I assume the indignant rôle.     

       “Mr. Fisher!” I cry, much hurt at this want of confidence.     

       “Who is this gentleman?” asks Mrs. Fisher, looking at me, I think, with a not altogether disapproving glance.     

       “Ask him,” says Fisher.     

       “Madame,” I say, with a bow, “I am an unfortunate stranger, come to pay my respects to Mr. Fisher and his beautiful lady. I wish you could explain my reception.”      

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