their hind-legs when he inspects the kennels!'”
The Baron with a solemn face gulped down his whisky-and-soda.
“Zat is not true about my dogs,” he replied, “but I do confess my life is vary dignified. So moch is expected of a Blitzenberg. Oh, ja, zere is moch state and ceremony.”
“And you seem to thrive on it.”
“Vell, it does not destroy ze appetite,” the Baron admitted; “and it is my duty so to live at Fogelschloss, and I alvays vish to do my duty. But, ach, sometimes I do vant to kick ze trace!”
“You mean you would want to if it were not for the Baroness?”
Bunker smiled whimsically; but his friend continued as simply serious as ever.
“Alicia is ze most divine woman in ze world—I respect her, Bonker, I love her, I gonsider her my better angel; but even in Heaven, I suppose, peoples sometimes vould enjoy a stroll in Piccadeelly, or in some vay to exercise ze legs and shout mit excitement. No doubt you zink it unaccountable and strange—pairhaps ungrateful of me, eh?”
“On the contrary, I feel as I should if I feared this cigar had gone out and then found it alight after all.”
“You say so! Ah, zen I will have more boldness to confess my heart! Bonker, ven I did land in England ze leetle thought zat vould rise vas—'Ze land of freedom vunce again! Here shall I not have to be alvays ze Baron von Blitzenberg, oldest noble in Bavaria, hereditary carpet-beater to ze Court! I vill disguise and go mit old Bonker for a frolic!'”
“You touch my tenderest chord, Baron!”
“Goot, goot, my friend!” cried the Baron, warming to his work of confession like a penitent whose absolution is promised in advance; “you speak ze vords I love to hear! Of course I vould not be vicked, and I vould not disgrace myself; but I do need a leetle exercise. Is it possible?”
Essington sprang up and enthusiastically shook his hand.
“Dear Baron, you come like a ray of sunshine through a London fog—like a moulin rouge alighting in
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