Breakfast in the private parlor was laid for two; but it was only Count Bunker, arrayed in a becoming suit of knickerbockers, and looking as fresh as if he had feasted last night on aerated water, who sat down to consume it.

“Who would be his ordinary everyday self when there are fifty more amusing parts to play,” he reflected gaily, as he sipped his coffee. “Blitzenberg and Essington were two conventional members of society, ageing ingloriously, tamely approaching five-and-thirty in bath-chairs. Tulliwuddle and Bunker are paladins of romance! We thought we had grown up—thank Heaven, we were deceived!”

Having breakfasted and lit a cigarette, he essayed for the second time to arouse the Baron; but getting nothing but the most somnolent responses, he set out for a stroll, visiting the gardens, stables, kennels, and keeper's house, and even inspecting a likely pool or two upon the river, and making in the course of it several useful acquaintances among the Tulliwuddle retainers.

When he returned he found the Baron stirring a cup of strong tea and staring at an ancestral portrait with a thoughtful frown.

“They are preparing the caber, Baron,” he remarked genially.

“Stoff and nonsense; I vill not fling her!” was the wholly unexpected reply. “I do not love to play ze fool alvays!”

“My dear Baron!”

“Zat picture,” said the Baron, nodding his head solemnly towards the portrait. “It is like ze Lord Tollyvoddle in ze print at ze hotel. I do believe he is ze same.”

“But I explained that he wasn't Tulliwuddle.”

“He is so like,” repeated the Baron moodily. “He most be ze same.”

Bunker looked at it and shook his head.

“A different man, I assure you.”

“Oh, ze devil!” replied the Baron.

“What's the matter?”

“I haff a head zat tvists and turns like my head never did since many years.”

The Count had already surmised as much.

“Hang it out of the window,” he suggested.

The Baron made no reply for some minutes. Then with an earnest air he began—

“Bonker, I have somezing to say to you.”

“You have the most sympathetic audience outside the clan.”

The Count's cheerful tone did not seem to please his friend.

“Your heart, he is too light, Bonker; ja, too light. Last night you did engourage me not to be seemly.”

“I!”

“I did get almost dronk. If my head vas not so hard I should be dronk. Das ist not right. If I am to be ze Tollyvoddle, it most be as I vould be Von Blitzenberg. I most not forget zat I am not as ozzer men. I am noble, and most be so accordingly.”

“What steps do you propose to take?” inquired Bunker with perfect gravity.

The Baron stared at the picture.

“Last night I had a dream. It vas zat man—at least, probably it vas, for I cannot remember eggsactly. He did pursue me mit a kilt.”

“With what did you defend yourself?”

“I know not: I jost remember zat it should be a warning. Ve Blitzenbergs have ze gift to dream.”

The Baron rose from the table and lit a cigar. After three puffs he threw it from him.

“I cannot smoke,” he said dismally. “It has a onpleasant taste.”

The Count assumed a seriously thoughtful air.

“No doubt you will wish to see Miss Maddison as soon as possible and get it over,” he began. “I have just learned that their place is about seven miles away. We could borrow a trap this afternoon——”

“Nein, nein!” interrupted the Baron. “Donnerwetter! Ach, no, it most not be so soon. I most practise a leetle first. Not so immediately, Bonker.”

Bunker looked at him with a glance of unfathomable calm.

“I find that it will be necessary for you to observe one or two ancient ceremonies, associated from time immemorial with the accession of a Tulliwuddle. You are prepared for the ordeal?”

“I most do my duty, Bonker.”

“This suggests some more inspiring vision than the gentleman in the gold frame,” thought the Count acutely.

Aloud he remarked

“You have high ideals, Baron.”

“I hope so.”

Again the Baron was the unconscious object of a humorous, perspicacious scrutiny.

“Last night I did hear zat moch was to be expected from me,” he observed at length.

“From Mrs. Gallosh?”

“I do not zink it vas from Mrs. Gallosh.”

Count Bunker smiled.

“You inflamed all hearts last night,” said he.

The Baron looked grave.

“I did drink too moch last night. But I did not say vat I should not, eh? I vas not rude or gross to—Mistair Gallosh?”

“Not to Mr. Gallosh.”

The Baron looked a trifle perturbed at the gravity of his tone.

“I vas not too free, too undignified in presence of zat innocent and charming lady—Miss Gallosh?”

The air of scrutiny passed from Count Bunker's face, and a droll smile came instead.

“Baron, I understand your ideals and I appreciate your motives. As you suggest, you had better rehearse your part quietly for a few days. Miss Maddison will find you the more perfect suitor.”

The Baron looked as though he knew not whether to feel satisfied or not.

“By the way,” said the Count in a moment, “have you written to the Baroness yet? Pardon me for reminding you, but you must remember that your letters will have to go out to Russia and back.”

The Baron started.

“Teufel!” he exclaimed. “I most indeed write.”

“The post goes at twelve.”

The Baron reflected gloomily, and then slowly moved to the writing-table and toyed with his pen. A few minutes passed, and then in a fretful voice he asked—

“Vat shall I say?”

“Tell her about your journey across Europe—how the crops look in Russia—what you think of St. Petersburg—that sort of thing.”

A silent quarter of an hour went by, and then the Baron burst out

“Ach, I cannot write to-day! I cannot invent like you. Ze crops—I have got zat—and zat I arrived safe—and zat Petersburg is nice. Vat else?”

“Anything you can remember from text-books on Muscovy or illustrated interviews with the Czar. Just a word or two, don't you know, to show you've been there; with a few comments of your own.”

“Vat like comments?”

“Such as—'Somewhat annoyed with bombs this afternoon,' or 'This caused me to reflect upon the disadvantages of an alcoholic marine'—any little bit of philosophy that occurs to you.”

The Baron pondered.

“It is a pity zat I have not been in Rossia,” he observed.

“On the other hand, it is a blessing your wife hasn't. Look at the bright side of things, my dear fellow.”

For a short time, from the way in which the Baron took hasty notes in pencil and elaborated them in ink (according to the system of Professor Virchausen), it appeared that he was following his friend's directions. Later, from a sentimental look in his eye, the Count surmised that he was composing an amorous addendum; and at last he laid down his pen with a sigh which the cynical (but only the cynical) might have attributed to relief.

“Ha, my head he is getting more clear!” he announced. “Gom, let us present ourselves to ze ladies, mine Bonker!”