“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.