“Gallosh, my lord. Very honored to welcome you.”
In the round eyes of Mr. Gallosh, Count Bunker perceived an unmistakable stare of astonishment at the sound of his lordship's accented voice. The Baron, on his part, was evidently still suffering from his attack of stage fright; but again the Count's gifts smoothed the creases from the situation.
“You have not introduced me to our host, Tulliwuddle,” he said, with a gay, infectious confidence.
“Ah, so! Zis is my friend Count Bunker—gom all ze vay from Austria,” responded the Baron, with no glimmer of his customary aplomb.
Making a mental resolution to warn his ally never to say one word more about his fictitious past than was wrung by cross-examination, the distinguished-looking Austrian shook his host's hand warmly.
“From Austria via London,” he explained in his pleasantest manner. “I object altogether to be considered a foreigner, Mr. Gallosh; and, in fact, I often tell Tulliwuddle that people will think me more English than himself. The German fashions so much in vogue at Court are transforming the very speech of your nobility. Don't you sometimes notice it?”
Thus directly appealed to, Mr. Gallosh became manifestly perplexed.
“Yes—yes, you're right in a way,” he pronounced cautiously. “I suppose they do that. But will ye not take a seat? This is my launch. Hi! Robert, give his lordship a hand on board!”
Two mariners and a second tall footman assisted the guests to embark, and presently they were cutting the waters of the loch at a merry pace.
In the prow, like youth, the Baron insisted upon sitting with folded arms and a gloomy aspect; and as his nerve was so patently disturbed, the Count decidedly approved of an arrangement which left his host and himself alone together in the stern. In his present state of mind the Baron was capable of any indiscretion were he compelled to talk; while, silent and brooding in isolated majesty, he looked to perfection the part of returning exile. So, evidently, thought Mr. Gallosh.