Again father and son looked at one another, and this time exchanged a nod.
“That, sir, will satisfy us,” said Mr. Maddison. “Ri, you may turn off the phonograph.”
And thereupon the cessation of a loud buzzing sound, which the visitors had hitherto attributed to flies, showed that their host now considered he had received a sufficient guarantee of his lordship's honorable intentions.
“So far, so good,” resumed Mr. Maddison. “I may now inform you, Lord Tulliwuddle, that the reports about you which I have been able to gather read kind of mixed, and before consenting to your reception within my daughter's boudoir we should feel obliged if you would satisfy us that the worst of them are not true—or, at least, sir, exaggerated.”
This time the Baron could not restrain an exclamation of displeasure.
“Vat, sir!” he cried, addressing the millionaire. “Do you examine me on my life!”
“No, sir,” said Ri, frowning his most determined frown. “It is to ME you will be kind enough to give any explanation you have to offer! Dad may be the spokesman, but I am the inspirer of these interrogations. My sister, sir, the purest girl in America, the most beautiful creature beneath the star-spangled banner of Columbia, is not going to be the companion of dissolute idleness and gilded dishonor—not, sir, if I know it.”
Too confounded by this unusual warning to think of any adequate retort, the Baron could only stare his sensations; while Mr. Maddison, taking up the conversation the instant his son had ceased, proceeded in a deliberate and impressive voice to say—
“Yes, sir, my son—and I associate myself with him—my son and I, sir, would be happy to learn that it is NOT the case as here stated” (he glanced at a paper in his hand), “namely, Item 1, that you sup rather too frequently with ladies—I beg your pardon, Count Bunker, for introducing the theme—with ladies of the theatrical profession.”
“I!” gasped the Baron. “I do only vish I sometimes had ze cha——”