“I am sure that Lord Tulliwuddle will never forgive me if I fail to learn the names of any visitors who have honored him to-day.”

“Mine,” said the girl, her color rising slightly, but her glance as kind as ever, “is Julia Wallingford.  This is my friend Miss Minchell.”

The Count bowed.

“And may I introduce myself as a friend of Tulliwuddle’s, answering to the name of Count Bunker.”

Again Miss Wallingford’s color rose.  In a low and ardent voice she began

“I am so glad to meet you!  Your name is already——­”

But at that instant, when the Count was bending forward to catch the words and the lady bending down to utter them, a hand grasped him by the sleeve, and the Baron’s voice exclaimed

“Come, Bonker, quickly here to help me!”

He would fain have presented his lordship to the ladies, but the Baron was too hurried to pause, and with a parting bow he was reluctantly borne off to assist his friend out of his latest dilemma.

“Pooh, my dear Baron!” he cried, when the situation was explained to him; “you couldn’t have done more damage to their hearts if you had hurled your hammer at them!  A touch of jealousy was all that was needed to complete your conquests.  But for me you have spoiled the most promising affair imaginable.  There goes their carriage trotting down the drive!  And I shall probably never know whether my name was already in her heart or in her prayers.  Those are the two chief receptacles for gentlemen’s names, I believe—­aren’t they, Baron?”

On his advice the rival families were left to the soothing influences of a good dinner and a night’s sleep, and he found himself free to ponder over his interrupted adventure.

“Undoubtedly one feels all the better for a little appreciation,” he reflected complacently.  “I wonder if it was my trews that bowled her over?”

CHAPTER XXV

The Count next morning consumed a solitary breakfast, his noble friend having risen some hours previously and gone for an early walk upon the hill.  But he was far from feeling any trace of boredom, since an open letter beside his plate appeared to provide him with an ample fund of pleasant and entertaining reflections.

“I have not withered yet,” he said to himself.  “Here is proof positive that some blossom, some aroma remains!”

The precise terms of this encouraging epistle were these: 

                         “TheLash, near NETHERBRIG. 
                              “Tuesday night.

“Dear count Bunker,—­Forgive what must seem to you incredible boldness (!), and do not think worse of me than I deserve.  It seems such a pity that you should be so near and yet that I should lose this chance of gratifying my great desire.  If you knew how I prized the name of Bunker you would understand; but no doubt I am only one among many, and you do understand better than I can explain.