“Then he composes German music.” Suddenly Willy stood up. “I have solved the mystery. This pessimism, Oswald, is the result of--of--why, you’re in love, man! I know her name. It’s Miss Tilney--June Tilney. The secret is out.” “Is her name June?” asked Oswald irrelevantly. “It’s June and she’s rich as the sound of her name.” The Hollin boys were irrepressible this gay morning. “So! But why June?” “You’re interested. Listen,” interpolated Harry. “She’s a Yankee girl with a Russian mother--or had one--and she was educated in London, Russia, Italy, Germany, Paris----” “Go on! Why not New York?” “She never saw New York, but she speaks United States.” “And,” added Willy, “the Count hates it like the dickens.” “What a pair of rattles you are! Who’s the Count?” “Why, Count Van Zorn, her guardian, of course. Haven’t you met old Van Zorn yet? He’s very musical, goes to all the swell musical Salons of Paris, to the Princesse de Brancovan, to the Comtesse de Blanzay, to Duchesse de Bellune, to the Princesse de Bibesco--” Oswald held up his hands in consternation. “Stop! I don’t care a sou where he goes. Who is he?” “He’s very rich and looks after June Tilney’s affairs. And--they say--wants to marry her--only thirty years’ difference--she won’t have it, though she likes the old codger and is seen everywhere with him--and they say the Rasta--he’s from Roumania or South America--goes in for magic and puts spells upon the girl.” “Drop the mufle,” interrupted Oswald. “The main thing now is breakfast. And, incidentally, why don’t you marry the girl yourself, Willy?” “C’est à Bibi!” exclaimed Harry, pointing to himself. “Willy has signed over all rights and interests to his loving brother. And we have the cabot on the run--he will be here in five minutes”; the brothers were embarrassed after this statement. Their friend stared at them shrewdly for a moment and then laughed--one of his rare “Rosmersholm” laughs, as the brothers had christened such a happening. “So that’s the game? Coming here to déjeuner! Miss June with him?” They blushed over the tops of their beards. Invern began grumbling. “Oswald!” exclaimed the boys deprecatingly; they were fond of him, notwithstanding his frowns and gloomy moods. A waiter was summoned and the order given for the mid-day meal. “Five plates, Louis, and have the whitest table linen in the house, please!”