A decidedly delectable residence," said Count Bunker to himself as his dog-cart approached the lodge gates of The Lash.

"And a very proper setting for the pleasant scenes so shortly to be enacted. Lodge, avenue, a bogus turret or two, and a flagstaff on top of 'em--by Gad, I think one may safely assume a tolerable cellar in such a mansion."

As he drove up the avenue between a double line of ancient elms and sycamores, his satisfaction increased and his spirits rose ever higher.

"I wonder if I can forecast the evening: a game of three-handed bridge, in which I trust I'll be lucky enough to lose a little silver, that'll put 'em in good-humor and make old Miss What-d'ye-may-call-her the more willing to go to bed early; then the departure of the chaperon; and then the tete-a-tete! I hope to Heaven I haven't got rusty!"

With considerable satisfaction he ran over the outfit he had brought, deeming it even on second thoughts a singularly happy selection: the dining coat with pale-blue lapels, the white tie of a new material and cut borrowed from the Baron's finery, the socks so ravishingly embroidered that he had more than once caught the ladies at Hechnahoul casting affectionate glances upon them.

"A first-class turn-out," he thought. "And what a lucky thing I thought of borrowing a banjo from young Gallosh! A coon song in the twilight will break the ground prettily."

By this time they had stopped before the door, and an elderly man-servant, instead of waiting for the Count, came down the steps to meet him. In his manner there was something remarkably sheepish and constrained, and, to the Count's surprise, he thrust forth his hand almost as if he expected it to be shaken.

Bunker, though a trifle puzzled, promptly handed him the banjo case, remarking pleasantly--"My banjo; take care of it, please."

The man started so violently that he all but dropped it upon the steps.

"What the deuce did he think I said?" wondered the Count. " 'Banjo' can't have sounded 'dynamite.' "

He entered the house, and found himself in a pleasant hall, where his momentary uneasiness was at once forgotten in the charming welcome of his hostess.

Not only she, but her chaperon, received him with a flattering warmth that realized his utmost expectations.

"It was so good of you to come!" cried Miss Wallingford.

"So very kind," murmured Miss Minchell.

"I knew you wouldn't think it too unorthodox!" added Julia.

"I'm afraid orthodoxy is a crime I shall never swing for," said the Count, with his most charming smile.

"I am sure my father wouldn't REALLY mind," said Julia.

"Not if Sir Justin shared your enthusiasm, dear," added Miss Minchell.

"I must teach him to!"

"Good Lord!" thought the Count. "This is friendly indeed."

A few minutes passed in the exchange of these preliminaries, and then his hostess said, with a pretty little air of discipleship that both charmed and slightly puzzled him "You do still think that nobody should dine later than six, don't you? I have ordered dinner for six to-night."

"Six!" exclaimed the Count, but recovering himself, added, "An ideal hour--and it is half-past five now.

Perhaps I had better think of dressing."

"What YOU call dressing!" smiled Julia, to his justifiable amazement. "Let me show you to your room."

She led him upstairs, and finally stopped before an open door.

"There!" she said, with an air of pride. "It is really my father's bedroom when he is at home, but I've had it specially prepared for YOU! Is it just as you would like?"

Bunker was incapable of observing anything very particularly beyond the fact that the floor was uncarpeted, and as nearly free from furniture as a bedroom floor could well be.

"It is ravishing!" he murmured, and dismissed her with a well-feigned smile.

Bereft even of expletives, he gazed round the apartment prepared for him. It was a few moments before he could bring himself to make a tour of its vast bleakness.

"I suppose that's what they call a truckle-bed," he mused. "Oh, there is one chair--nothing but cold water-towels made of vegetable fibre apparently.

The devil take me, is this a reformatory for bogus noblemen!"

He next gazed at the bare whitewashed wall. On it hung one picture--the portrait of a strangely attired man.

"What n shocking-looking fellow!" he exclaimed, and went up to examine it more closely.

Then, with a stupefying shock, he read this legend beneath it "Count Bunker. Philosopher, teacher, and martyr."