“And I, sir, have instructed you,” returned the count, “that your accusation is altogether baseless. There, if you cede so much to the authority of my years, the matter may be allowed to rest. If you have further business with Captain Fyffe, I will find another opportunity of calling upon him.” “I have no further business with Captain Fyffe,” said Bruno, “now nor at any time.” So saying, he looked about him for his hat, caught it up, bowed angrily to the count, and without a word or a glance for me walked out of the room, slamming the outer door so noisily that the whole house shook with the concussion. “Mr. Brunow,” said the count, when we were thus left alone, “is an ill-conditioned person. I owe it to you to explain precisely what has happened. But first, my dear Fyffe, give me your hand, and let me offer you my felicitations.” I took the hand he offered and held it a moment, hardly realizing where I stood. “Your suit is accepted; and if you will do us the honor to dine with us this evening, I am charged by Lady Rollinson to say that she will be charmed to meet you at her table. There, my dear fellow,” he concluded, hastily withdrawing his hand, “you are stronger than you fancy yourself to be.” He stood, half laughing, as he straightened the fingers of his right hand with his left, and then shook them in memory of my grip. I had not a word to say for myself, and I felt as foolish and awkward as a school-boy. “And now,” said the count, laying a hand on each of my shoulders and pressing me gently towards an arm-chair, “I will tell you what has happened between Mr. Brunow and myself.” “Never mind about Brunow just at present, sir,” I cried, recovering my wits a little; “I have other things to think of which are of greater moment.” “Well, yes,” he answered, with a very sweet yet mournful smile, “I can believe so. Brunow will keep.” “I am to understand, sir,” I asked, “that Miss Rossano accepts the offer of my hand?” “Precisely,” said the count, nodding with his affectionate and melancholy smile. “She knows my circumstances?” “I will not say she knows them absolutely,” he replied, “but I think she has a fairly accurate knowledge of them.” “I have an income of three hundred pounds a year.” “So much as that?” he asked, with a dry, quaint look. It was so wise, so friendly, so childlike, so gay, so unlike the dull and dreadful aspect his face had worn when I had first known it that it affected me strongly, “My dear Fyffe,” he said, reaching his friendly hand out towards me once more, “why should we talk about money? If you can put Brunow out of your mind I can put money out of mine. My daughter loves me, and the man who saved me loves my daughter; and Violet--well, she shall speak for herself.”