"I have been longing for this moment!" said Julia softly.

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?"