Evidently Mr. Gallosh, while waiting for the Count's return, had so worked up his wrath that it was ready to explode on a hair-trigger touch; and, as evidently, his guest's extreme urbanity made it exceedingly difficult to carry out his threatening intentions.

“I want a word with you, Count. I've been wanting a word with you all morning,” he began.

“Believe me, Mr. Gallosh, I appreciate the compliment.”

“Where were you? I mean it was verra annoying not to find you when I wanted you.”

The merchant was so evidently divided between anxiety to blurt out his mind while it was yet hot from the making up, and desire not to affront a guest and a man of rank, that the Count could scarcely restrain a smile.

“It is equally annoying to myself. I should have enjoyed a conversation with you at any hour since breakfast.”

“Umph,” replied his host.

“What can I do for you now?”

Mr. Gallosh looked at him steadfastly.

“Count Bunker,” said he, “I am only a plain man——”

“The ladies, I assure you, are not of that opinion,” interposed the Count politely.

Mr. Gallosh seemed to him to receive this compliment with more suspicion than pleasure.

“I'm saying,” he repeated, “that I'm only a plain man of business, and you and your friend are what you'd call swells.”

“God forbid that I should!” the Count interjected fervently. “'Toffs,' possibly—but no matter, please continue.”

“Well, now, so long as his lordship likes to treat me and my family as kind of belonging to a different sphere, I'm well enough content. I make no pretensions, Count, to be better than what I am.”

“I also, Mr. Gallosh, endeavor to affect a similar modesty. It's rather becoming, I think, to a fine-looking man.”

“It's becoming to any kind of man that he should know his place. But I was saying, I'd have been content if his lordship had been distant and polite and that kind of thing. But was he? You know yourself, Count, how he's behaved!”

“Perfectly politely, I trust.”

“But he's not been what you'd call distant, Count Bunker. In fac', the long and the short of it is just this—what's his intentions towards my Eva?”

“Is it Mrs. Gallosh who desires this information?”

“It is. And myself too; oh, I'm not behindhand where the reputation of my daughters is concerned!”

“Mrs. G. has screwed him up to this,” said the Count to himself. Aloud, he asked with his blandest air—

“Was not Lord Tulliwuddle available himself?”

“No; he's gone out.”

“Alone?”

“No, not alone.”

“In brief, with Miss Gallosh?”

“Quite so; and what'll he be saying to her?”

“He is a man of such varied information that it's hard to guess.”

“From all I hear, there's not been much variety so far,” said Mr. Gallosh drily.

“Dear me!” observed the Count.

His host looked at him for a few moments.

“Well?” he demanded at length.

“Pardon me if I am stupid, but what comment do you expect me to make?”

“Well, you see, we all know quite well you're more in his lordship's confidence than any one else in the house, and I'd take it as a favor if you'd just give me your honest opinion. Is he just playing himself—or what?”

The worthy Mr. Gallosh was so evidently sincere, and looked at him with such an appealing eye, that the Count found the framing of a suitable reply the hardest task that had yet been set him.

“Mr. Gallosh, if I were in Tulliwuddle's shoes I can only say that I should consider myself a highly fortunate individual; and I do sincerely believe that that is his own conviction also.”

“You think so?”

“I do indeed.”

Though sensibly relieved, Mr. Gallosh still felt vaguely conscious that if he attempted to repeat this statement for the satisfaction of his wife, he would find it hard to make it sound altogether as reassuring as when accompanied by the Count's sympathetic voice. He ruminated for a minute, and then suddenly recalled what the Count's evasive answers and sympathetic assurances had driven from his mind. Yet it was, in fact, the chief occasion of concern.

“Do you know, Count Bunker, what his lordship has gone and done?”

“Should one inquire too specifically?” smiled the Count; but Mr. Gallosh remained unmoved.

“You can bear me witness that he told us he was giving this gathering in my Eva's honor?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well, he went and told Miss Maddison it was for her sake?”

“Incredible!”

“It's a fact!”

“I refuse to believe my friend guilty of such perfidy! Who told you this?”

“The Maddisons themselves.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Count, as heartily as he had laughed at Lincoln Lodge; “don't you know these Americans sometimes draw the long bow?”

“You mean to say you don't believe they told the truth?”

“My dear Mr. Gallosh, I would answer you in the oft-quoted words of Horace—'Arma virumque cano.' The philosophy of a solar system is some times compressed within an eggshell. Say nothing and see!”

He shook his host heartily by the hand as he spoke, and Mr. Gallosh, to his subsequent perplexity, found the interview apparently at a satisfactory conclusion.

“And now,” said the Count to himself, “'Bolt!' is the word.”

As he set about his packing in the half-hour that yet remained before luncheon, he was surprised to note that his friend had evidently left no orders yet concerning any preparations for his departure.

“Confound him! I thought he had made up his mind last night! Ah, there he comes—and singing, too, by Jingo! If he wants another day's dalliance——”

At this point his reflections were interrupted by the entrance of the jovial Baron himself. He stopped and stared at his friend.

“Vat for do you pack up?”

“Because we leave this afternoon.”

“Ach, Bonker, absurd! To-morrow—yes, to-morrow ve vill leave.”

Bunker folded his arms and looked at him seriously.

“I have had two interviews this morning—one with Mr. Maddison, the other with Mr. Gallosh. They were neither of them pleased with you, Baron.”

“Not pleased? Vat did zey say?”

Depicting the ire of these gentlemen in the most vivid terms, the Count gave him a summary of his morning's labors.

“Pooh, pooh! Tuts, tuts!” exclaimed the Baron. “I vill make zat all right; never do you fear. Eva, she does smile on me already. Eleanor, she vill also ven I see her. Leave it to me.”

“You won't go to-day?”

“To-morrow, Bonker, I swear I vill for certain!”

Bonker pondered.

“Hang it!” he exclaimed. “The worst of it is, I've pledged myself to go upon a visit.”

The Baron listened to the tale of his incipient romance with the greatest relish.

“Bot go, my friend! Bot go!” he cried, “and zen come back here to-morrow and ve vill leave togezzer.”

“Leave you alone, with the barometer falling and the storm-cone hoisted? I don't like to, Baron.”

“Bot to leave zat leetle girl—eh, Bonker? How is zat?”

“Was ever a man so torn between two duties!” exclaimed the conscientious Count.

“Ladies come first!” quoth the Baron.

Bunker was obviously strongly tending to this opinion also.

“Can I trust you to guide your own destinies without me?”

The Baron drew himself up with a touch of indignation.

“Am I a child or a fool? I have guided mine destiny vary vell so far, and I zink I can still so do. Ven vill you go to see Miss Wallingford?”

“I'll hire a trap from the village after lunch and be off about four,” said the Count. “Long live the ladies! Learn wisdom by my example! Will this tie conquer her, do you think?”

In this befitting spirit he drove off that afternoon, and the Baron, after waving his adieus from the door, strode brimful of confidence towards the drawing-room. His thoughts must have gone astray, for he turned by accident into the wrong room—a small apartment hardly used at all; and before he had time to turn back he stopped petrified at the sight of a picture on the wall. There could be no mistake—it was the original of that ill-omened print he had seen in the Edinburgh hotel, “The Execution of Lord Tulliwuddle.” The actual title was there plain to see.

“Zen it vas not a hoax!” he gasped.

His first impulse was to look for a bicycle and tear after the dog-cart.

“But can I ride him in a kilt?” he reflected.

By the time he had fully debated this knotty point his friend was miles upon his way, and the Baron was left ruefully to lament his rashness in parting with such an ally.