“By no means!” the Professor answered with a proud smile. “After about a minute, he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P. B.—all the water runs back into the jug—and there you are again!” “But how in the world is he to get _out_ of the bag again?” “_That_, I take it,” said the Professor, “is the most beautiful part of the whole invention. All the way up the P. B., inside, are loops for the thumbs; so it’s something like going up-stairs, only perhaps less comfortable; and, by the time the A. T. has risen out of the bag, all but his head, he’s sure to topple over, one way or the other—the Law of Gravity secures _that_. And there he is on the floor again!” “A little bruised, perhaps?” “Well, yes, a little bruised; but _having had his plunge-bath_: that’s the great thing.” “Wonderful! It’s almost beyond belief!” murmured the Sub-Warden. The Professor took it as a compliment, and bowed with a gratified smile. “_Quite_ beyond belief!” my Lady added—meaning, no doubt, to be more complimentary still. The Professor bowed, but he didn’t smile _this_ time. “I can assure you,” he said earnestly, “that, _provided the bath was made_, I used it every morning. I certainly _ordered_ it—_that_ I am clear about—my only doubt is, whether the man ever finished making it. It’s difficult to remember, after so many years——” At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open, and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up, and ran to meet the well-known footstep. CHAPTER III. BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS. “It’s my brother!” the Sub-Warden exclaimed, in a warning whisper. “Speak out, and be quick about it!” The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who instantly replied, in a shrill monotone, like a little boy repeating the alphabet, “As I was remarking, your Sub-Excellency, this portentous movement——” “You began too soon!” the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement. “He couldn’t have heard you. Begin again!” “As I was remarking,” chanted the obedient Lord Chancellor, “this portentous movement has already assumed the dimensions of a Revolution!” “And what _are_ the dimensions of a Revolution?” The voice was genial and mellow, and the face of the tall dignified old man, who had just entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding triumphantly on his shoulder, was too noble and gentle to have scared a less guilty man: but the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly, and could hardly articulate the words “The dimensions—your—your High Excellency? I—I—scarcely comprehend!” “Well, the length, breadth, and thickness, if you like it better!” And the old man smiled, half-contemptuously.