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Into the Foreign Legion drifted everything that was doubtful, and many that were criminal. No questions were asked of those who sought its hospitable ranks, and readers of Ouida's novel Under Two Flags will recall that it enveloped in its convenient obscurity British lordlings and the lowest of Catalonian thieves.
No wonder straightforward sentiments like these do not appeal to our age of neutral tints and compromise, to our vegetarian world-reformers who are as incapable of enthusiasm as they are of contempt, because their blood-temperature is invariably two degrees below the normal. Ouida's critical and social opinions are infernally out of date quite inconveniently modern, in fact.
And the Colonel rang for his man and proceeded to finish his toilet. He seemed a thought absent-minded this morning. "I say, Wilkins," he questioned, after a little. "Ever read any of Ouida's books?" "Ho, yes, sir," said Wilkins; "Miss 'Enderson Mrs. 'Aggage's maid, that his, sir was reading haloud hout hof 'Hunder Two Flags' honly last hevening, sir."
Tanner stepped aghast as she was cutting a piece of dried-apple pie for Margaret. "Now, Buddie mother's boy you don't mean to tell me you went to Ouida's Cabin? Why, sonnie, that's an awful place! Don't you know your pa told you he'd whip you if you ever went on that trail?" "I should worry, Ma! I had to go. They had Mr. Gardley tied up there, and we had to go and get him rescued."
He had for several weeks suspected that the thieves made their headquarters in the region of Old Ouida's Cabin, and made their raids from that direction.
As to the grand point, Mr. Flinders told Constance that her tale was talented and striking, full of great excellence; she might hope for success equal to Ouida's but that he had found it quite impossible to induce a publisher to accept a work by an unknown author, unless she advanced something. He could guarantee the return, but she must entrust him with thirty pounds.
Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth the doctor's fondness for flowers. A grand piano mutely spoke of his love for music. Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberly dressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida's "Dog of Flanders." All the photographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of life were photographs of children, except one.
They were married with the blessings of old friends and new, and, to do her full justice, she made him a good wife according to her lights. She was quite insanely in love with him at first, for he looked like one of Ouida's guardsmen, and his pedigree was so long, and so varied with romantic historic episode, that she was fully a week committing it to memory.
They come as a shock, these writings, because in the brief interval since they were published our view of life and letters has shifted. A swarm of mystics and pragmatists has replaced the lonely giants of Ouida's era. It is an epoch of closed pores, of constriction. The novel has changed.
Finnegan held up Ouida's Moths "and I got so interested in it that I just naturally forgot to go home. Finnegan's out, anyway. I was telling him about your good fortune. And all he said was: 'Well, it beats me how an old crow like Mrs. Condor gets paid for singing.
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