“Because follies _without_ illusions get so infernally dull, Baron.” The Baron smiled a little foolishly. “I haf ze illusions, I fear.” Then he broke out enthusiastically, “Ach, bot is she not lofly, Bonker? If she will bot lof me back I shall be ze happiest man out of heaven!” “You have wasted no time, Baron.” The Baron shook his head in melancholy pleasure. “You are quite sure it is really love this time?” his friend pursued. “Qvite!” said the Baron, with the firmness of a martyr. “There are so many imitations.” “Not so close zat zey can deceive!” “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr Bunker. “These first symptoms are common to them all, and yet the varieties of the disease are almost beyond counting. I myself have suffered from it in eight different forms. There was the virulent, spotted-all-over variety, known as calf-love; there was the kind that accompanied itself by a course of the Restoration dramatists; another form I may call the strayed-Platonic, and that may be subdivided into at least two; then there was——” “Schtop! schtop!” cried the Baron. “Ha, ha, ha! Zat will do! Teufel! I most examine my heart strictly. And yet, Bonker, I zink my loff is anozzer kind—ze _real!_” “They are all that, Baron; but have it your own way. Anything I can do to make you worse shall be done.” “Zanks, my best of friends,” said the Baron, warmly, seizing his hand; “I knew you would stand by me!” Mr Bunker gave a little laugh, and returning the pressure, replied, “My dear fellow, I’d do anything to oblige a friend in such an interesting condition.” CHAPTER IV. The Baron was a few minutes late in joining the party at lunch, and when he appeared he held an open letter in his hand. It was only the middle of the next day, and yet he could have sworn that last night he was comparatively whole-hearted, he felt so very much more in love already. “Yet anozzer introdogtion has found me out,” he said as he took his seat. “I have here a letter of invitation vich I do not zink I shall accept.” He threw an amorous glance at Lady Alicia, which her watchful mother rightly interpreted as indicating the cause of his intended refusal. “Who is it this time?” asked Mr Bunker. “Sir Richard Brierley of Brierley Park, Dampshire. Is zat how you pronounce it?” “Sir Richard Brierley!” exclaimed the Countess; “why, Alicia and I are going to visit some relatives of ours who live only six miles from Brierley Park! When has he asked you, Baron?” “Ze end of next week.” “How odd! We are going down to Dampshire at the end of next week too. You must accept, Baron!” “I shall!” exclaimed the overjoyed Baron. “Shall ve go, Bonker?” “I’m not asked, I’m afraid.” “Ach, bot zat is nozzing. I shall tell him.” “As you please, Baron,” replied Mr Bunker, with a half glance at Lady Alicia.