Count Bunker could not but observe that Miss Wallingford's eyes expressed more surprise than pleasure when he entered the drawing-room, and he was confirmed in his resolution to let his true character appear but gradually. Afterwards he could not congratulate himself too heartily on this prudent decision.

“I fear,” he said, “that I am late.” (It was in fact half-past six by now.) “I have been searching through my wardrobe to find some nether garments at all appropriate to the overall—if I may so term it—which you were kind enough to lay out for me. But I found mustard of that particular shade so hard to match that I finally decided in favor of this more conventional habit. I trust you don't mind?”

Both the ladies, though evidently disappointed, excused him with much kindness, and Miss Minchell alluded directly to his blue lapels as evidence that even now he held himself somewhat aloof from strict orthodoxy.

“May we see any allusion to your uncle, the late Count Bunker, in his choice of color?” she asked in a reverently hushed voice.

“Yes,” replied the Count readily; “my aunt's stockings were of that hue.”

From the startled glances of the two ladies it became plain that the late Count Bunker had died a bachelor.

“My other aunt,” he exclaimed unabashed; yet nevertheless it was with decided pleasure that he heard dinner announced immediately afterwards.

“They seem to know something about my uncle,” he said to himself. “I must glean a few particulars too.”

A horrible fear lest his namesake might have dined solely upon herbs, and himself be expected to follow his example, was pleasantly dissipated by a glance at the menu; but he confessed to a sinking of his heart when he observed merely a tumbler beside his own plate and a large brown jug before him.

“Good heavens!” he thought, “do they imagine an Austrian count is necessarily a beer drinker?”

With a sigh he could not quite smother, he began to pour the contents into his glass, and then set it down abruptly, emitting a startled exclamation.

“What is the matter?” cried Julia sympathetically.

Her eyes (he was embarrassed to note) followed his every movement like a dog's, and her apprehension clearly was extreme.

“This seems to be water,” smiled the Count, with an effort to carry off their error as pleasantly for them as possible.

“Isn't it good water?” asked Julia with an air of concern.

It was the Count's turn to open his eyes.

“You have concluded then that I am a teetotaler?”

“Of course, we know you are!”

“If we may judge by your prefaces,” smiled Miss Minchell.

The Count began to realize the hazards that beset him; but his spirit stoutly rose to meet the shock of the occasion.

“There is no use in attempting to conceal my idiosyncrasies, I see,” he answered. “But to-night, will you forgive me if I break through the cardinal rule of my life and ask you for a little stimulant? My doctor——”

“I see!” cried Miss Wallingford compassionately. “Of course, one can't dispute a doctor's orders. What would you like?”

“Oh, anything you have. He did recommend champagne—if it was good; but anything will do.”

“A bottle of the VERY best champagne, Mackenzie!”

The dinner now became an entirely satisfactory meal. Inspired by his champagne and by the success of his audacity in so easily surmounting all difficulties, the Count delighted his hostesses by the vivacity and originality of his conversation. On the one hand, he chose topics not too flippant in themselves and treated them with a becomingly serious air; on the other, he carefully steered the talk away from the neighborhood of his uncle.

“By the time I fetch out my banjo they'll have forgotten all about him,” he said to himself complacently.

Knowing well the importance of the individual factor in all the contingencies of life, he set himself, in the meanwhile, to study with some attention the two ladies beside him. Miss Minchell he had already summarized as an agreeable nonentity, and this impression was only confirmed on better acquaintance. It was quite evident, he perceived, that she was dragged practically unresisting in Miss Wallingford's wake—even to the length of abetting the visit of an unknown bachelor in the absence of Miss Wallingford's parent.

As for Julia, he decided that she was even better-looking and more agreeable than he had at first imagined; though, having the gayest of hearts himself, he was a trifle disconcerted to observe the uniform seriousness of her ideas. How one could reconcile her ecstatic enthusiasm for the ideal with her evident devotion to himself he was at a loss to conceive.

“However, we will investigate that later,” he thought.

But first came a more urgent question: Had his uncle and his “prefaces” committed him to forswear tobacco? He resolved to take the bull by the horns.

“I hope you will not be scandalized to learn that I have acquired the pernicious habit of smoking?” he said as they rose from the table.

“I told you he was smoking a cigar at Hechnahoul!” cried Miss Minchell with an air of triumph.

“I thought you were mistaken,” said Julia, and the Count could see that he had slipped a little from his pedestal.

This must not be permitted; yet he must smoke.

“Of course I don't smoke REAL tobacco!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, in that case,” cried Julia, “certainly then you may smoke in the drawing-room. What is it you use?”

“A kind of herb that subdues the appetites, Miss Wallingford.”

He could see at a glance that he was more firmly on his pedestal than ever.