“I can well believe it,” said the Count sympathetically.
“Well, now,” the heiress resumed, with a candid smile that made her cynicism become her charmingly, “you see how it is. I want a man one can RESPECT, even if he is a peer. He may have as many titles as dad has dollars, but he must be a MAN!”
“That is so,” said Ri, with additional emphasis.
“I can guarantee Lord Tulliwuddle as a model for a sculptor and an eligible candidate for canonization,” declared the Count.
“I guess we want something grittier than that,” said Ri.
“And what there is of it sounds almost too good news to be true,” added his sister. “I don't want a man like a stained-glass window, Count; because for one thing I couldn't get him.”
“If you specify your requirements we shall do our best to satisfy you,” replied the Count imperturbably.
“Well, now,” said Eleanor thoughtfully, “I may just as well tell you that if I'm going to take a peer—and I must own peers are rather my fancy at present—it was Mohammedan pashas last year, wasn't it, Ri?” (“That is so,” from Ri.)—“If I AM going to take a peer, I must have a man that LOOKS a peer. I've been plagued with so many undersized and round-shouldered noblemen that I'm beginning to wonder whether the aristocracy gets proper nourishment. How tall is Lord Tulliwuddle?”
“Six feet and half an inch.”
“That's something more like!” said Ri; and his sister smiled her acquiescence.