I sat at the head of the table, and could see the right-hand wall; the others had their backs to it.

On that wall, at a good distance away, were a couple of framed pictures.

I could not see them clearly, but from the groupings of the figures I fancied that they represented the killing of Napoleon III's son by the Zulus in South Africa.

I broke into the conversation, which was about poetry and cabbage and art, and said to my wife-- "Do you remember when the news came to Paris----" "Of the killing of the Prince ?" (Those were the very words I had in my mind.) "Yes, but what Prince ?" "Napoleon.

Lulu." "What made you think of that ?" "I don't know." There was no collusion.