The Count and she were seated over the drawing-room fire, Bunker in an easy-chair, smoking one of the excellent cigars which he had so grievously slandered, Julia upon a stool by his knees, her face suffused with the most intense expression of rapture. Miss Minchell was in the background, shrouded in shadow, purporting to be enjoying a nap; yet the Count could not but think that in so large a house a separate apartment might well have been provided for her. Her presence, he felt, circumscribed his actions uncomfortably.
“So have I!” he murmured, deeming this the most appropriate answer.
“Now we can talk about HIM!”
He started, but preserved his composure.
“Couldn't we keep HIM till morning?” he suggested.
“But that is why you are here!”
She spoke as if this were self-evident; while the Count read himself a thousand lessons upon the errors vanity is apt to lead one into. Yet his politeness remained unruffled.
“Of course,” he answered. “Of course! But you see my knowledge of him——”
He was about to say that it was very slight, when, fortunately for him, she interrupted with an eager—
“I know! I know! You were more than a son to him!”
“The deuce and all!” thought the Count. “That was a narrow squeak!”
“Do you know,” she continued in the same tone, “I have actually had the audacity to translate one of his books—your preface and all.”
“I understand the allusion now,” thought Bunker.
Aloud he had the presence of mind to inquire—
“Which was it?”
“'Existence Seriously Reviewed.'”
“You couldn't have made a better choice,” he assured her.
“And now, what can you tell me about him?” she cried.
“Suppose we talk about the book instead,” suggested Bunker, choosing what seemed the lesser of two evils.
“Oh, do!”
She rose impetuously, brought with a reverent air a beautifully written and neatly tied-up manuscript, and sat again by his knee. Looking over his shoulder he could see that the chaperon was wide awake and prepared to listen rapturously also.
“I have so often longed to have some one with me who could explain things—the very deep things, you know. But to think of having you—the Editor and nephew! It's too good to be true.”
“Only eight o'clock,” he said to himself, glancing at the clock. “I'm in for a night of it.”
The vision of a game of bridge and a coon song on the banjo from that moment faded quite away, and the Count even tucked his feet as far out of sight as possible, since those entrancing socks served to remind him too poignantly of what might have been.
“What exactly did he mean by this?” began Julia, “'Let Potentates fear! Let Dives tremble! The horny hand of the poor Man in the Street is stretched forth to grasp his birthright!'”
“For 'birthright' read 'pocket-book.' There's a mistake in the translation,” he answered promptly. “It appears to be an indirect argument for an increase in the Metropolitan police.”
“Are you sure? I thought—surely it alludes to Socialism!”
“Of course; and the best advertisement for Socialism is a collision with the bobbies. My uncle was a remarkably subtle man, I assure you.”
“How very ingenious!” exclaimed Miss Minchell from the background.
Julia did her best to feel convinced; but it was in a distinctly less ecstatic voice that she read her next extract.
“'Alcohol, riches, and starched linen are the moths and worms of society.' I suppose he means that they eat away its foundations?”
“On the contrary, he was an enthusiastic entomologist. He merely meant to imply that it isn't every one who can appreciate a glass of port and a clean shirt.”
“But he didn't appreciate those things himself!”
“No; poor fellow. He often wished he could, though.”
“Did he really?”
“Oh, you've no idea how tired he grew of flannel and ginger-beer! Many a time he's said to me, 'My boy, learn to take what's set before you, even at an alderman's table.' Ah, his was a generous creed, Miss Wallingford!”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” said Julia submissively.
His advantage in being able to claim an intimate personal knowledge of the late philosopher's tastes encouraged the Count greatly. Realizing that a nephew could not well be contradicted, he was emboldened to ask whether there were any more points on which his authority could be of assistance.
“Oh yes,” said she, “only—only somehow you seem to throw a different light on everything.”
“Naturally, dear,” chimed in Miss Minchell, “a personal explanation always makes things seem different.”
Julia sighed, but summed up her courage to read out—
“'When woman is prized according to her intellect and man according to his virtue; oh, then mankind will return to Eden!'”
“That,” said he, “is one of the rare instances of my uncle's pessimism.”
“Of his pessimism! How can you say that?”
“He meant to imply that mankind would have to wait for some considerable time. But do not feel dismayed. My own opinion is that so long as woman is fair and man has the wit to appreciate her, we ARE in Eden.”
The gracious tone in which he delivered this dictum, and the moving smile that accompanied it, appeared to atone completely for his relative's cynical philosophy. With a smile and a sigh Julia murmured—
“Do you really think so?”
“I do,” said the Count fervently; “and now suppose we were to have a little music?”
“Oh yes!” cried Miss Minchell; “do you perform, Count Bunker?”
“I sometimes sing a little to the guitar.”
“To the guitar!” said Julia. “How delicious! Have you brought it?”
“I have been so bold,” he smiled, and promptly went to fetch this instrument.
In a few minutes he returned with an apologetic air.
“I find that by some error they have sent me away with a banjo instead,” he exclaimed. “But I dare say I could manage an accompaniment on that if you would condescend to listen to me.”
He felt so exceedingly disinclined for expounding a philosophy any longer that he gave them no time to dissent, even had they wished to, but on the instant struck up that pathetic ditty—
“Down by whar de beans grow blue.”
And no sooner had he finished it than (barely waiting for his meed of applause) he further regaled them with—
“Twould make a fellow
Turn green and yellow!
Finally, as a tit-bit, he contributed—
“When hubby s gone to Brighton,
And I ve sent the cook to bed,
Oh who's that a-knocking on the window!”
At the conclusion of this concert he knew not whether to feel more relieved or chagrined to observe that his fair hostess had her eyes fixed upon the clock. Thanking him with a slightly embarrassed air, she threw a pointed glance at Miss Minchell, and the two ladies rose.
“I am afraid you will think we keep very early hours,” she began.
“It is one of the best rules in my uncle's philosophy,” he interposed.
Yet though glad enough to have come so triumphantly to the end of his ordeal, he could not bring himself to let his charming disciple leave him in a wounded or even disappointed mood. As soon as Miss Minchell had passed through the door he quietly laid his hand upon Julia's arm, and with a gesture beckoned her back into the room.
“Pardon my seeming levity, Miss Wallingford,” he said in a grave and gentle voice, “but you know not what emotions I had to contend with! I thank you for your charming sympathy, and I beg you to accept in my uncle's name that salute by which his followers distinguish the faithful.”
And he thereupon kissed the blushing girl with a heartiness that restored her confidence in him completely.
“Well,” he said to himself as he retired with his candle, “I've managed to get a fair penn'orth out of it after all.”
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