“Pipe up the clan and abduct her!”
“Approach her mit a kilt!”
But even those optimistic exhortations left the peer still melancholy.
“It sounds all very well,” said he, “but my clansmen, as you call 'em, would expect such a devil of a lot from me too. Old Tulliwuddle spoiled them for any ordinary mortal. He went about looking like an advertisement for whisky, and called 'em all by their beastly Gaelic names. I have never been in Scotland in my life, and I can't do that sort of thing. I'd merely make a fool of myself. If I'd had to go to America it wouldn't have been so bad.”
At this weak-kneed confession the Baron could hardly withhold an exclamation of contempt, but Essington, with more sympathy, inquired—
“What do you propose to do, then?”
His lordship emptied his glass.
“I wish I had your brains and your way of carrying things off, Essington!” he said, with a sigh. “If you got a chance of showing yourself off to Miss Maddison she'd jump at you!”
A gleam, inspired and humorous, leaped into Essington's eyes. The Baron, whose glance happened at the moment to fall on him, bounded gleefully from his seat.
“Hoch!” he cried, “it is mine old Bonker zat I see before me! Vat have you in your mind?”