“He will be no worse off than before. Left to himself, he certainly won't marry the lady. You give him his only chance.”
“Bot more zan you vould, really and truthfully?”
“My dear Baron, you are admitted by all to be an ideal German nobleman. Therefore you will certainly make an ideal British peer. You have the true Grand-Seigneur air. No one would mistake you for anything but a great aristocrat, if they merely saw you in bathing pants; whereas I have something a little different about my manner. I'm not so impressive—not so hall-marked, in fact.”
His friend's omniscient air and candidly eloquent tone impressed the Baron considerably. His ingrained conviction of his own importance accorded admirably with these arguments. His thirst for “life” craved this lion's share. His sanguine spirit leaped at the appeal. Yet his well-regulated conscience could not but state one or two patent objections.
“Bot I have not read so moch of the Tollyvoddles as you. I do not know ze strings so vell.”
“I have told you nearly everything I know. You will find the rest here.”
Essington handed him the note-book containing his succinct digest. In intelligent anticipation of this contingency it was written in his clearest handwriting.
“You should have been a German,” said the Baron admiringly.
He glanced with sparkling eyes at the note-book, and then with a distinctly greater effort the Teutonic conscience advanced another objection.
“Bot you have bought ze kilt, ze Highland hat, ze brogue shoes.”