They joined a jingling string of other hansoms and sped swiftly through the exhilarating bustle of the streets. To the Baron it seemed as if a great change had come over the city since he wandered disconsolately before dinner. Carried swiftly to the music of the little bells through the sharp air and the London night that is brighter than day, with a friend by his side and a good dinner within, he marked the most astonishing difference. All the people seemed to talk and laugh, and for his own part he found it hard to keep his tongue still. “I know ze name of ze Regent’s,” he said; “vun club of ze best, is it not?” “The very best club, Baron.” “Zey are all noble?” “In many cases the receipts for their escutcheons are still in their pockets.” Though the precise significance of this explanation was not quite clear to the Baron, it sounded eminently satisfactory. “Zo?” he said. “I shall be moch interested to see zem.” As they entered the club the porter stared at them curiously, and even made a movement as though he would step out and address them; but Mr Bunker, wishing him a courteous good evening, walked briskly up to the hat-and-cloak racks in the hall. A young man had just hung up his hat, and as he was divesting himself of his coat, Mr Bunker quickly took the hat down, glanced at the name inside, and replaced it on its peg. Then he held out his hand and addressed the young man cordially. “Good evening, Transome, how are you?” said he, and, heedless of the look of surprise on the other’s face, he turned towards the Baron and added, “Let me introduce the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg—Mr Transome. The Baron has just come to England, and I thought he couldn’t begin better than by a visit to the Regent’s. Let us come into the smoking-room.” In a few minutes they were all on the best of terms. A certain perplexity, and almost shyness, that the young man showed at first, vanished rapidly before the Baron’s cordiality and Mr Bunker’s well-bred charm of manner. They were deeply engrossed in a discussion on the reigning sovereign of the Baron’s native land, a monarch of whose enlightened policy that nobleman spoke with pardonable pride, when two elderly gentlemen entered the room. “Who are these?” Mr Bunker whispered to Transome. “I know them very well, but I am always bad at names.” “Lord Fabrigas and General M’Dermott,” replied Transome. Instantly Mr Bunker rose and greeted the new-comers. “Good evening, Lord Fabrigas; good evening, General. You have just come in time to be introduced to the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, whom you doubtless know by reputation.” The Baron rose and bowed, and it struck him that elderly English gentlemen were singularly stiff and constrained in their manner. Mr Bunker, however, continued cheerfully, “We are just going to have a smoking concert. Will you begin, Baron?” “I know not English songs,” replied the Baron, “bot I should like moch to hear.” “You must join in the chorus, then.”