more astonishing than his remarkable denunciation of the pleasures of the table, since to dress as well as play the part of hereditary grandee had been till this minute his constant and enthusiastic ambition.     

       “A meat-jack, I mean—or a—I know not vat you call it. Ach, I vant a leetle fun, Alicia.”      

       “A little fun,” repeated the Baroness in a breathless voice. “What kind of fun?”      

       “I know not,” said he, turning once more to stare out of the window.     

       To this dignified representative of a particularly dignified State even the trees of Belgrave Square seemed at that moment a trifle too conventionally perpendicular. If they would but dance and wave their boughs he would have greeted their greenness more gladly. A good-looking nursemaid wheeled a perambulator beneath their shade, and though she never looked his way, he took a wicked pleasure in surreptitiously closing first one eye and then the other in her direction. This might not entirely satisfy the aspirations of his soul, yet it seemed to serve as some vent for his pent-up spirit. He turned to his spouse with a pleasantly       meditative air.     

       “I should like to see old Bonker vunce more,” he observed.     

       “Bunker? You mean Mr. Mandell-Essington?” said she, with an apprehensive note in her voice.     

       “To me he vill alvays be Bonker.”      

       The Baroness looked at him reproachfully.     

       “You promised me, Rudolph, you would see as little as possible of Mr. Essington.”      

       “Oh, ja, as leetle—as possible,” answered the Baron, though not with his most ingenuous air. “Besides, it is tree years since I promised. For tree years I have seen nozing. My love Alicia, you vould not have me forget mine friends altogezzer?”      

       But the Baroness had too vivid a recollection of their last (and only)       visit to England since their marriage. By a curious coincidence that also was three years ago.     

 Prev. P 8/187 next