“Well, you see, my dear Baron,” his friend explained, “I ought to have warned you that it is not usual in England to address ladies you have met at a dance without some direct invitation on their part. At the same time, it is evident that the Hiltons and the other man, who of course must be connected with the Foreign Office, are aware of some sudden strain in the diplomatic relations between England and Germany, which as yet is unknown to the public. Your ancient name and your high rank have naturally led them to conclude that you are an agent of the German Government, and an international significance was of course attached to your presence in the Park. I certainly think they took a most outrageous advantage of a trifling detail of etiquette to repulse you; but then you must remember, Baron, that their families might have been seriously compromised with the Government if they had been seen with so prominent a member of the German aristocracy in the middle of Hyde Park.” “Zo?” said the Baron, thoughtfully. “I begin to onderstand. My name, as you say, is cairtainly distinguished. Bot zen should I remain in London?” “Just what I was wondering, Baron. What do you say to a trip down to St Egbert’s-on-Sea? It’s a very select watering-place, and we might spend a week or two there very pleasantly.” “Egxellent!” said the Baron; “ven shall we start?” “To-morrow morning.” “Goot! zo let it be. I am tired of London and of ze English ladies’ manners. Police to ze Baron von Blitzenberg! Ve shall go to St Egbert’s, Bonker!” PART III. CHAPTER I. The Baron and Mr Bunker walked arm-in-arm along the esplanade at St Egbert’s-on-Sea. “Aha!” said the Baron, “zis is more fresh zan London!” “Yes,” replied his friend; “we are now in the presence of that stimulating element which provides patriotic Britons with music-hall songs, and dyspeptic Britons with an appetite.” A stirring breeze swept down the long white esplanade, threatening hats and troubling skirts; the pale-green south-coast sea rumbled up the shingle; the day was bright and pleasant for the time of year, and drove the Baron’s mischances from his head; altogether it seemed to Mr Bunker that the omens were good. They were both dressed in the smartest of tweed suits, and walked jauntily, like men who knew their own value. Every now and then, as they passed a pretty face, the Baron would say, “Aha, Bonker! zat is not so bad, eh?” And Mr Bunker, who seemed not unwilling that his friend should find some entertaining distraction in St Egbert’s, would look at the owners of these faces with a prospector’s eye and his own unrivalled assurance. They had walked up and down three or four times, when a desire for a different species of diversion began to overtake the Baron. It was the one kind of desire that the Baron never even tried to wrestle with. “My vriend Bonker,” said he, “is it not somevere about time for loncheon, eh?”