“You are quite sure it is really love this time?” his friend pursued.
“Qvite!” said the Baron, with the firmness of a martyr.
“There are so many imitations.”
“Not so close zat zey can deceive!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr Bunker. “These first symptoms are common to them all, and yet the varieties of the disease are almost beyond counting. I myself have suffered from it in eight different forms. There was the virulent, spotted-all-over variety, known as calf-love; there was the kind that accompanied itself by a course of the Restoration dramatists; another form I may call the strayed-Platonic, and that may be subdivided into at least two; then there was——”
“Schtop! schtop!” cried the Baron. “Ha, ha, ha! Zat will do! Teufel! I most examine my heart strictly. And yet, Bonker, I zink my loff is anozzer kind—ze real!”
“They are all that, Baron; but have it your own way. Anything I can do to make you worse shall be done.”
“Zanks, my best of friends,” said the Baron, warmly, seizing his hand; “I knew you would stand by me!”
Mr Bunker gave a little laugh, and returning the pressure, replied, “My dear fellow, I’d do anything to oblige a friend in such an interesting condition.”