“Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Maddison, “pleasure is pleasure, and
business is business. I guess we mean to do a little of both to-day, if
you are perfectly disposed. What do you say, Count?”
“I consider that an occasion selected by you, Mr. Maddison, is not to be
neglected.”
The millionaire bowed his acknowledgment of the compliment, and turned
to the Baron, who, it may be remarked, was wearing an expression of
thoughtful gravity not frequently to be noted at Hechnahoul.
“You desire to say a few words to me, Lord Tulliwuddle, I understand. I
shall be pleased to hear them.”
With this both father and son bent such earnest brows on the Baron and
waited for his answer in such intense silence, that he began to regret
the absence of his inspiring pipers.
“I vould like ze honor to address mine--mine----”
He threw an imploring glance at his friend, who, without hesitation,
threw himself into the breach.
“Lord Tulliwuddle feels the natural diffidence of a lover in adequately
expressing his sentiments. I understand that he craves your permission
to lay a certain case before a certain lady. I am right, Tulliwuddle?”
“Pairfectly,” said the Baron, much relieved; “to lay a certain case
before a certain lady. Zat is so, yes, exactly.”
Father and son glanced at one another.
“Your delicacy does you honor, very great honor,” said Mr. Maddison;
“but business is business, Lord Tulliwuddle, and I should like to hear
your proposition more precisely stated. In fact, sir, I like to know
just where I am.”
“That's just about right,” assented Ri.
“I vould perhaps vish to marry her.”
“Perhaps!” exclaimed the two together.
Again the Count adroitly interposed--
“You mean that you do not intend to thrust your attentions upon an
unwilling lady?”
“Yes, yes; zat is vat I mean.”
“I see,” said Mr. Maddison slowly. “H'm, yes.”
“Sounds what you Scotch call 'canny,'” commented Ri shrewdly.
“Well,” resumed the millionaire, “I have nothing to say against that;
provided--provided, I say, that you stipulate to marry the lady so long
as she has no objections to you. No fooling around--that's all we want
to see to. Our time, sir, is too valuable.”
“That is so,” said Ri.
The Baron's color rose, and a look of displeasure came into his eyes,
but before he had time to make a retort that might have wrecked his
original's hopes, Bunker said quickly--
“Tulliwuddle places himself in your hands, with the implicit confidence
that one gentleman reposes in another.”
Gulping down his annoyance, the Baron assented--
“Yes, I vill do zat.”
Again father and son looked at one another, and this time exchanged a
nod.
“That, sir, will satisfy us,” said Mr. Maddison. “Ri, you may turn off
the phonograph.”
And thereupon the cessation of a loud buzzing sound, which the visitors
had hitherto attributed to flies, showed that their host now considered
he had received a sufficient guarantee of his lordship's honorable
intentions.
“So far, so good,” resumed Mr. Maddison. “I may now inform you, Lord
Tulliwuddle, that the reports about you which I have been able to gather
read kind of mixed, and before consenting to your reception within my
daughter's boudoir we should feel obliged if you would satisfy us that
the worst of them are not true--or, at least, sir, exaggerated.”
This time the Baron could not restrain an exclamation of displeasure.
“Vat, sir!” he cried, addressing the millionaire. “Do you examine me on
my life!”
“No, sir,” said Ri, frowning his most determined frown. “It is to ME you
will be kind enough to give any explanation you have to offer! Dad may
be the spokesman, but I am the inspirer of these interrogations. My
sister, sir, the purest girl in America, the most beautiful creature
beneath the star-spangled banner of Columbia, is not going to be the
companion of dissolute idleness and gilded dishonor--not, sir, if _I_
know it.”
Too confounded by this unusual warning to think of any adequate retort,
the Baron could only stare his sensations; while Mr. Maddison, taking
up the conversation the instant his son had ceased, proceeded in a
deliberate and impressive voice to say--
“Yes, sir, my son--and I associate myself with him--my son and I, sir,
would be happy to learn that it is NOT the case as here stated” (he
glanced at a paper in his hand), “namely, Item 1, that you sup rather
too frequently with ladies--I beg your pardon, Count Bunker, for
introducing the theme--with ladies of the theatrical profession.”
“I!” gasped the Baron. “I do only vish I sometimes had ze cha----”
“Tulliwuddle!” interrupted the Count. “Don't let your natural
indignation carry you away! Mr. Maddison, that statement is not true. I
can vouch for it.”
“Ach, of course it is not true,” said the Baron more calmly, as he began
to realize that it was not his own character that was being aspersed.
“I am very glad to hear it,” continued Mr. Maddison, who apparently did
not share the full austerity of his son's views, since without further
question he hurried on to the next point.
“Item 2, sir, states that at least two West End firms are threatening
you with proceedings if you do not discharge their accounts within a
reasonable time.”
“A lie!” declared the Baron emphatically.
“Will you be so kind as to favor us with the name of the individual who
is thus libelling his lordship?” demanded the Count with a serious air.
Mr. Maddison hastily put the paper back in his pocket, and with a glance
checked his son's gesture of protest.
“Guess we'd better pass on to the next thing, Ri. I told you it wasn't
any darned use just asking. But you boys always think you know better
than your Poppas,” said he; and then, turning to the Count, “It
isn't worth while troubling, Count; I'll see that these reports get
contradicted, if I have to buy up a daily paper and issue it at a
halfpenny. Yes, sir, you can leave it to me.”
The Count glanced at his friend, and they exchanged a grave look.
“Again we place ourselves in your hands,” said Bunker.
Though considerably impressed with these repeated evidences of
confidence on the part of two such important personages, their host
nevertheless maintained something of his inquisitorial air as he
proceeded--
“For my own satisfaction, Lord Tulliwuddle, and meaning to convey no
aspersion whatsoever upon your character, I would venture to inquire
what are your views upon some of the current topics. Take any one you
like, sir, so long as it's good and solid, and let me hear what you have
to say about it. What you favor us with will not be repeated beyond this
room, but merely regarded by my son and myself as proving that we are
getting no dunder-headed dandy for our Eleanor, but an article of
real substantial value--the kind of thing they might make into a
Lord-lieutenant or a Viceroy in a bad year.”
Tempting in every way as this suggestion sounded, his lordship
nevertheless appeared to find a little initial difficulty in choosing a
topic.
“Speak out, sir,” said Mr. Maddison in an encouraging tone. “Our
standard for noblemen isn't anything remarkably high. With a duke I'd be
content with just a few dates and something about model cottages, and,
though a baron ought to know a little more than that, still we'll count
these feudal bagpipers and that ancestral hop-scotch performance as a
kind of set-off to your credit. Suppose you just say a few words on the
future of the Anglo-Saxon race. What you've learned from the papers will
do, so long as you seem to understand it.”
Perceiving that his Teutonic friend looked a trifle dismayed at this
selection, Count Bunker suggested the Triple Alliance as an alternative.
“That needs more facts, I guess,” said the millionaire; “but it will be
all the more creditable if you can manage it.”
The Baron cleared his throat to begin, and as he happened (as the Count
was well aware) to have the greatest enthusiasm for this policy, and to
have recently read the thirteen volumes of Professor Bungstrumpher
on the subject, he delivered a peroration so remarkable alike for its
fervor, its facts, and its phenomenal length, that when, upon a gentle
hint from the Count, he at last paused, all traces of objection had
vanished from the minds of Darius P. Maddison, senior and junior.
“I need no longer detain you, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said the millionaire
respectfully. “Ri, fetch your sister into her room. Your lordship, I
have received an intellectual treat. I am very deeply gratified, sir.
Allow me to conduct you to my daughter's boudoir.”
Flushed with his exertions and his triumph though the Baron was, he yet
remembered so vividly the ordeal preceding the oration that as they went
he whispered in his friend's ear:
“Ah, Bonker, stay mit me, I pray you! If she should ask more questions!
“Mr. Maddison, ze Count will stay mit me.”
Though a little surprised at this arrangement, which scarcely accorded
with his lordship's virile appearance and dashing air, Mr. Maddison
was by this time too favorably disposed to question the wisdom of
any suggestion he might make, and accordingly the two friends found
themselves closeted together in Miss Maddison's sanctum awaiting the
appearance of the heiress.
“Shall I remain through the entire interview?” asked the Count.
“Oh yes, mine Bonker, you most! Or--vell, soppose it gets unnecessary
zen vill I cry 'By ze Gad!' and you vill know to go.”
“'By the Gad'? I see.”
“Or--vell, not ze first time, but if I say it tree times, zen vill you
make an excuse.”
“Three times? I understand, Baron.”