“THAT my uncle!” he exclaimed with an air of pleased surprise, examining the portrait more attentively; “by Gad, I suppose it is! But I can't say it is a flattering likeness. 'Philosopher, teacher, and martyr'—how apt a description! I hadn't noticed that before, or I should have known at once who it was.”
Still Mackenzie was looking at him with a perplexed and uneasy air.
“Miss Wallingford, sir, seems under the impression that you would be wanting jist the same kind of things as he likit,” he remarked diffidently.
The Count laughed.
“Hence the condemned cell she's put me in? I see! Ha, ha! No, Mackenzie, I have moved with the times. In fact, my uncle's philosophy and teachings always struck me as hardly suitable for a gentleman.”
“I was thinking that mysel',” observed Mackenzie.
“Well, you understand now how things are, don't you? By the way, you haven't put out my evening clothes, I notice.”
“You werena to dress, sir, Miss Julia said.”
“Not to dress! What the deuce does she expect me to dine in?”
With a sheepish grin Mackenzie pointed to something upon the bed which the Count had hitherto taken to be a rough species of quilt.