He rushed into the smoking-room, and there, instead of any bald notability or spectacled statesman, there advanced to meet him a merely private English gentleman, tolerably young, undeniably good-looking, and graced with the most debonair of smiles.
“My dear Bonker!” cried the Baron, crimsoning with joy. “Ach, how pleased I am!”
“Baron!” replied his visitor gaily. “You cannot deceive me—that waistcoat was made in Germany! Let me lead you to a respectable tailor!”
Yet, despite his bantering tone, it was easy to see that he took an equal pleasure in the meeting.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the Baron, “vot a fonny zing to say! Droll as ever, eh?”
“Five years less droll than when we first met,” said the late Bunker and present Essington. “You meet a dullish dog, Baron—a sobered reveller.”
“Ach, no! Not surely? Do not disappoint me, dear Bonker!”
The Baron's plaintive note seemed to amuse his friend.
“You don't mean to say you actually wish a boon companion? You, Baron, the modern Talleyrand, the repository of three emperors' secrets? My dear fellow, I nearly came in deep mourning.”
“Mourning! For vat?”