Count Bunker Part 39

"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 a.s.sured 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 c.o.o.n 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt for Socialism is a collision with the bobbies. My uncle was a remarkably subtle man, I a.s.sure you."

"How very ingenious!" exclaimed Miss Minch.e.l.l 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 entomologist. He merely meant to imply that it isn't every one who can appreciate a gla.s.s of port and a clean shirt."

"But he didn't appreciate those things himself!"

"No; poor fellow. He often wished he could, though."

"Did he really?"

"Oh, you've no idea how tired he grew of flannel and ginger-beer! Many a time he's said to me, 'My boy, learn to take what's set before you, even at an alderman's table.' Ah, his was a generous creed, Miss Wallingford!"

"Yes, I suppose it was," said Julia submissively.

His advantage in being able to claim an intimate personal knowledge of the late philosopher's tastes encouraged the Count greatly. Realizing that a nephew could not well be contradicted, he was emboldened to ask whether there were any more points on which his authority could be of a.s.sistance.

"Oh yes," said she, "only--only somehow you seem to throw a different light on everything."

"Naturally, dear," chimed in Miss Minch.e.l.l, "a personal explanation always makes things seem different."

Julia sighed, but summed up her courage to read out--

"'When woman is prized according to her intellect and man according to his virtue; oh, then mankind will return to Eden!'"

"That," said he, "is one of the rare instances of my uncle's pessimism."

"Of his pessimism! How can you say that?"

"He meant to imply that mankind would have to wait for some considerable time. But do not feel dismayed. My own opinion is that so long as woman is fair and man has the wit to appreciate her, we ARE in Eden."

The gracious tone in which he delivered this dictum, and the moving smile that accompanied it, appeared to atone completely for his relative's cynical philosophy. With a smile and a sigh Julia murmured--

"Do you really think so?"

"I do," said the Count fervently; "and now suppose we were to have a little music?"

"Oh yes!" cried Miss Minch.e.l.l; "do you perform, Count Bunker?"

"I sometimes sing a little to the guitar."

"To the guitar!" said Julia. "How delicious! Have you brought it?"

"I have been so bold," he smiled, and promptly went to fetch this instrument.

In a few minutes he returned with an apologetic air.

"I find that by some error they have sent me away with a banjo instead,"

he exclaimed. "But I dare say I could manage an accompaniment on that if you would condescend to listen to me."

He felt so exceedingly disinclined for expounding a philosophy any longer that he gave them no time to dissent, even had they wished to, but on the instant struck up that pathetic ditty--

"Down by whar de beans grow blue."

And no sooner had he finished it than (barely waiting for his meed of applause) he further regaled them with--