“Certainly, Bonker. I haf a voice zat is considered—vat you call—deafening, yes?—in ze chorus.” Mr Bunker cleared his throat, and, just as the General was on the point of interposing a remark, struck up hastily; and for the first time in its long and honourable history the smoking-room of the Regent’s Club reechoed to a popular music-hall ditty. “They sometimes call ’em duckies, they sometimes call ’em pets, And sometimes they refer to ’em as dears They live on little matters that a gentleman forgets, In a little world of giggles and of tears; There are different varieties from which a man may choose, There are sorts and shapes and sizes without end, But the kind I’d pick myself is the kind you introduce By the simple title of ‘my lady friend.’ ” “Chorus, Baron!” And then he trolled in waltz time this edifying refrain— “My lady friend, my lady friend! Can’t you twig, dear boys, From the sound of the kisses She isn’t my misses, She’s only my lady friend!” In a voice like a train going over a bridge the Baron chimed in— “My laty vrient, my laty vrient! Cannot you tvig, mine boy, Vrom ze sound of ze kiss, He is not my miss, He is only mine laty vrient!” “I am afraid,” said Mr Bunker, as they finished the chorus, “that I can’t remember any more. Now, General, it’s your turn.” “Sir,” replied that gallant officer, who had listened to this ditty in purple and petrified astonishment, “I don’t know who the devil you are, but I can tell you, you won’t remain a member of this club much longer if you come into it again in this state.” “I had forgotten,” said Mr Bunker, with even more than his usual politeness, “that such an admirable music-hall critic was listening to me. I must apologise for my poor effort.” Wishing him courteously good-night, he took the Baron by the arm and walked out. While that somewhat perplexed nobleman was struggling into his coat, his friend rapidly and dexterously converted all the silk hats he could see into the condition of collapsed opera hats, and then picked a small hand-bag off the floor. The Baron walked out through the door first, but Mr Bunker stopped for an instant opposite the hall-porter’s box, and crying, “Good night to you, sir!” hurled the bag through the glass, rushed after his friend, and in less time than it takes to tell they were tearing up Pall Mall in a hansom. For a few minutes both were silent; then the Baron said slowly, “I do not qvite onderstand.” “My dear Baron,” his friend explained gaily, “these practical jokes are very common in our clubs. They are quite part of our national life, you know, and I thought you ought to see everything.” The Baron said nothing, but he began to realise that he was indeed in a foreign country. CHAPTER III. “Vell, Bonker, vat show to-day?” said the Baron. Mr Bunker sipped his coffee and smiled back at his friend.