“Papa, lend me five pounds,” she panted.

“Lend you—­five pounds!  And what for, I’d like to know?”

“Don’t ask me now.  I—­I promise to tell you later —­some time later.”

“I’ll see myself——!  I mean, you’re talking nonsense.”

Eva’s lip trembled.

“Hi, hist!  Eva, my dear,” said Mr. Rentoul; “if you’re wanting the money badly, and your papa doesn’t see his way——­”

He concluded his sentence with a wink and a dive into his trousers-pocket, and a minute later Eva had fled from the room again.

This action of the sage, being at total variance to his ordinary habits (which indeed erred on the economical side), was attributed by his irate host—­with a certain show of reason—­to the mere intention of annoying him; and the conversation took a more acrimonious turn than ever.  In fact, when Eva returned a few minutes later she was just in time to hear her father thunder in an infuriated voice—­

“A German waiter, is he?  Aye, that’s verra probable, verra probable indeed.  In fact I might have known it when I saw you and him swilling a bottle and a half of my best port together!  Birds of a feather —­aye, aye, exactly!”

The crushing retort which the sage evidently had ready to heap upon the fire of this controversy was anticipated by Miss Gallosh.

“He isn’t a German waiter, papa!  He is a German baron—­and an ambassador, too!”

The four started and stared at her.

“Where did you learn that?” demanded her father.

“I’ve been talking to the man who brought the letter, and he says that Lord Tulli—­I mean the Baron —­declares positively that he is a German nobleman!”

“Tuts, fiddlesticks!” scoffed her father.

“Verra like a whale,” pronounced the sage.

“I wouldn’t believe what he said,” declared Mrs. Gallosh.

“One can see he isn’t,” said Mrs. Rentoul.

“The kind of Baron that plays in a German band, perhaps,” added her husband, with a whole series of winks to give point to this mot.

“He’s just a scoundrelly adventurer!” shouted Mr. Gallosh.

“I hope he’ll get penal servitude, that’s what I hope,” said his wife with a sob.

“And, judging from his appearance, that’ll be no new experience for him,” commented the sage.

So remarkably had their judgment of the late Lord Tulliwuddle waxed in discrimination.  And, strange to say, his only defender was the lady he had injured most.

“I still believe him a gentleman!” she cried, and swept tearfully from the room.

CHAPTER XXXV

While his late worshippers were trampling his memory in the mire, the Baron von Blitzenberg, deserted and dejected, his face still buried in his hands, endured the slow passage of the doleful afternoon.  Unlike the prisoner at The Lash, who, by a coincidence that happily illustrates the dispensations of Providence, was undergoing at the same moment an identical ordeal, the Baron had no optimistic, whimsical philosophy to fall back upon.  Instead, he had a most tender sense of personal dignity that had been egregiously outraged—­ and also a wife.  Indeed, the thought of Alicia and of Alicia’s parent was alone enough to keep his head bowed down.