“I always feel at home with a Scotsman,” he discoursed genially. “His imagination is so quick, his intellect so clear, his honesty so remarkable, and” (with an irresistible glance at the minister's lady) “his wife so charming.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Gallosh, who was mellowing rapidly under the influence of his own champagne. “I'm verra glad to see you know good folks when you meet them. What do you think now of the English?”
Having previously assured himself that his audience was neat Scotch, the polished Austrian unblushingly replied—
“The Englishman, I have observed, has a slightly slower imagination, a denser intelligence, and is less conspicuous for perfect honesty. His womankind also have less of that nameless grace and ethereal beauty which distinguish their Scottish sisters.”
It is needless to say that a more popular visitor never was seen than this discriminating foreigner, and if his ambitions had not risen above a merely personal triumph, he would have been in the highest state of satisfaction. But with a disinterested eye he every now and then sought the farther end of the table, where, between his hostess and her charming eldest daughter, and facing his factor, the Baron had to endure his ordeal unsupported.
“I wonder how the devil he's getting on!” he more than once said to himself.
For better or for worse, as the dinner advanced, he began to hear the Court accent more frequently, till his curiosity became extreme.
“His lordship seems in better spirits,” remarked Mr. Gallosh.
“I hope to Heaven he may be!” was the fervent thought of Count Bunker.
At that moment the point was settled. With his old roar of exuberant gusto the Baron announced, in a voice that drowned even the five ministers—