“Confound it!” he thought, “I hadn’t bargained on having to keep out of people’s way till they came back.  If Essington had mentioned that sooner, I don’t know that I’d have been so keen about the notion.  Hang it!  I’ll have to chuck the Morrells’ dance.  And I can’t go with the Greys to Ranelagh.  I can’t even dine with my own aunt on Sunday.  Oh, the devil!”

The perturbed young peer waved his umbrella and climbed into a hansom.

“Well, anyhow, I can still go on seeing Connie.  That’s some consolation,” he told himself; and without stopping to consider what would be the thoughts of his two obliging friends had they known he was seeking consolation in the society of one lady while they were arranging his nuptials with another, the baptismal Tulliwuddle drove back to the civilization of St. James’s.

Within the reserved compartment was no foreboding, no faint-hearted paling of the cheek.  As the train clattered, hummed, and presently thundered on its way, the two laughed cheerfully towards one another, delighted beyond measure with the prosperous beginning of their enterprise.  The Baron could not sufficiently express his gratitude and admiration for the promptitude with which his friend had purveyed so promising an adventure.

“Ve vill have fon, my Bonker.  Ach! ve vill,” he exclaimed for the third or fourth time within a dozen miles from Euston.

His Bunker assumed an air half affectionate, half apologetic.

“I only regret that I should have the lion’s share of the adventure, my dear Baron.”

“Yes,” said the Baron, with a symptom of a sigh, “I do envy you indeed.  Yet I should not say zat——­” Bunker swiftly interrupted him.

“You would like to play a worthier part than merely his lordship’s friend?”

“Ach! if I could.”

Bunker smiled benignantly.

“Ah, Baron, you cannot suppose that I would really do Tulliwuddle such injustice as to attempt, in my own feeble manner, to impersonate him?”

The Baron stared.

“Vat mean you?”

“You shall be the lion, I the humble necessary jackal.  As our friend so aptly quoted, noblesse oblige.  Of course, there can be no doubt about it.  You, Baron, must play the part of peer, I of friend.”

The Baron gasped.

“Impossible!”

“Quite simple, my dear fellow.”

“You—­you don’t mean so?”

“I do indeed.”

“Bot I shall not do it so vell as you.”

“A hundred times better.”

“Bot vy did you not say so before?”

“Tulliwuddle might not have agreed with me.”

“Bot vould he like it now?”

“It is not what he likes that we should consider, it’s what is good for his interests.”

“Bot if I should fail?”

“He will be no worse off than before.  Left to himself, he certainly won’t marry the lady.  You give him his only chance.”