They were deeply engrossed in a discussion on the reigning sovereign of the Baron’s native land, a monarch of whose enlightened policy that nobleman spoke with pardonable pride, when two elderly gentlemen entered the room.
“Who are these?” Mr Bunker whispered to Transome. “I know them very well, but I am always bad at names.”
“Lord Fabrigas and General M’Dermott,” replied Transome.
Instantly Mr Bunker rose and greeted the new-comers.
“Good evening, Lord Fabrigas; good evening, General. You have just come in time to be introduced to the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, whom you doubtless know by reputation.”
The Baron rose and bowed, and it struck him that elderly English gentlemen were singularly stiff and constrained in their manner. Mr Bunker, however, continued cheerfully, “We are just going to have a smoking concert. Will you begin, Baron?”
“I know not English songs,” replied the Baron, “bot I should like moch to hear.”
“You must join in the chorus, then.”
“Certainly, Bonker. I haf a voice zat is considered—vat you call—deafening, yes?—in ze chorus.”
Mr Bunker cleared his throat, and, just as the General was on the point of interposing a remark, struck up hastily; and for the first time in its long and honourable history the smoking-room of the Regent’s Club reechoed to a popular music-hall ditty.