“Quite wrong, papa,--quite wrong. It is when his delusions are strongest that he will be most easily led. His own vanity will be the most effectual of all intoxications. But you may leave him to _me_ without fear or misgiving.” “I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some minutes ensued. “Why are you taking such pains about your hair, Loo,” asked he, “if you are going in domino?” “None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in this same life of ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I have got such a habit of providing for casualties that I have actually arranged my papers and letters in the fashion they ought to be found in after my death.” Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is always unwelcome to a man with a light auburn wig and a florid complexion, who wants to cheat Fate into the notion that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to fancy himself pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And Holmes sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for himself. “By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, “where are you stopping?” “At the Hôtel d'Italie, my dear.” “What do you think,--had n't you better come here?” “I don't exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.” “Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invitation,--'Sir William Heathcote's compliments,' &c,--all in due form, in the course of the day, and I 'll give directions about your room. You have no servant, I hope?” “None.” “So much the better; there is no guarding against the garrulity of that class, and all the craftiest stratagems of the drawing-room are often undermined in the servants'-hall. As for yourself, you know that you represent the late Captain's executor. You were the guardian of poor dear Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.” “Knew him since he was so high!” said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor. “That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you 'll have to prepare yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises they were, how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture you about genealogies.” “I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I am most painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an hour with me without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can put delicate questions in the voice of a boatswain.” “Dear papa, you are always what the French call 'at the level of the situation,' and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture you with interrogatories.”