“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances, and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.” “Can you take me?” “Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.” “Goot!” cried the Baron. “Ve shall go.” Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered silk waistcoat, a pair of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification. Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room. “Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?” asked the Baron. “My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to English etiquette.” “Zo? I did not know zat.” The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper. “Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native land alike for his talents and his lofty position,” said Mr Bunker. “Ach, my good friend,” exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand, “das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me! Bravo! Ha!” From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour. “Who is that girl?” asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty damsel just leaving the room. “Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I believe,” answered the young man. “Do you mind introducing me?” “Certainly,” said their new friend. “Come along.” As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker, and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say, “It looks devilish like him.” “He has shaved, then,” said the other.