e.

"Well, the gentlemen must have an answer. You will tell them that the
Count, my father--nay--give him his true title if you care--is vastly
obliged to them for the honour they have done him, but would decline on
account of his age and infirmities. You know how to phrase a decent
refusal."

"Pardon me," said I, "but I might give them that answer till doomsday
and never content them. They have not travelled many thousand miles to
be put off by hearsay evidence. Nothing will satisfy them but an
interview with your father himself.

"It is impossible," she said sharply.

"Then we must expect the renewed attentions of our American friends.
They will wait till they see him."

She rose and paced the room.

"They must go," she repeated many times. "If they see him sober he
will accept with joy, and we shall be the laughing-stock of the world.
I tell you it cannot be. I alone know how immense is the
impossibility. He cannot afford to lose the last rags of his dignity,
the last dregs of his ease. They must not see him. I will speak with
them myself."

"They will be honoured, madame, but I do not think they will be
convinced. They are what we call in my land 'men of business.' They
will not be content till they get the Count's reply from his own lips."

A new Duchess seemed to have arisen, a woman of quick action and sharp
words.

"So be it. They shall see him. Oh, I am sick to death of fine
sentiments and high loyalty and all the vapouring stuff I have lived
among for years. All I ask for myself and my father is a little peace,
and, by Heaven! I shall secure it. If nothing will kill your
gentlemen's folly but truth, why, truth they shall have. They shall
see my father, and this very minute. Bring them up, Mr. Townshend, and
usher them into the presence of the rightful King of England. You will
find him alone." She stopped her walk and looked out of the window.

I went back in a hurry to the Americans. "I am bidden to bring you to
the Count's chamber. He is alone and will see you. These are the
commands of madame his daughter."

"Good!" said Mr. Galloway, and all four, grave gentlemen as they were,
seemed to brace themselves to a special dignity as befitted ambassadors
to a king. I led them upstairs, tapped at the Count's door, and,
getting no answer, opened it and admitted them.

And this was what we saw. The furniture was in disorder, and on a couch
lay an old man sleeping a heavy drunken