y that it was very slight, when, fortunately for him,
she interrupted with an eager--

"I know! I know! You were more than a son to him!"

"The deuce and all!" thought the Count. "That was a narrow squeak!"

"Do you know," she continued in the same tone, "I have actually had the
audacity to translate one of his books--your preface and all."

"I understand the allusion now," thought Bunker.

Aloud he had the presence of mind to inquire--

"Which was it?"

"'Existence Seriously Reviewed.'"

"You couldn't have made a better choice," he assured her.

"And now, what can you tell me about him?" she cried.

"Suppose we talk about the book instead," suggested Bunker, choosing
what seemed the lesser of two evils.

"Oh, do!"

She rose impetuously, brought with a reverent air a beautifully written
and neatly tied-up manuscript, and sat again by his knee. Looking over
his shoulder he could see that the chaperon was wide awake and prepared
to listen rapturously also.

"I have so often longed to have some one with me who could explain
things--the very deep things, you know. But to think of having you--the
Editor and nephew! It's too good to be true."

"Only eight o'clock," he said to himself, glancing at the clock. "I'm in
for a night of it."

The vision of a game of bridge and a coon song on the banjo from that
moment faded quite away, and the Count even tucked his feet as far out
of sight as possible, since those entrancing socks served to remind him
too poignantly of what might have been.

"What exactly did he mean by this?" began Julia, "'Let Potentates fear!
Let Dives tremble! The horny hand of the poor Man in the Street is
stretched forth to grasp his birthright!'"

"For 'birthright' read 'pocket-book.' There's a mistake in the
translation," he answered promptly. "It appears to be an indirect
argument for an increase in the Metropolitan police."

"Are you sure? I thought--surely it alludes to Socialism!"

"Of course; and the best advertisement for Socialism is a collision with
the bobbies. My uncle was a remarkably subtle man, I assure you."

"How very ingenious!" exclaimed Miss Minchell from the background.

Julia did her best to feel convinced; but it was in a distinctly less
ecstatic voice that she read her next extract.

"'Alcohol, riches, and starched linen are the moths and worms of
society.' I suppose he means that they eat away its foundations?"

"On the contrary, he was an enthusiastic entom