my own anxiety as well, if you would venture in to see him for a few
minutes. In such a case there is no sympathy so welcome as a woman's."

The Countess glanced at her daughter, and wavered for an instant between
those proprieties for which she was a famous stickler and this admirable
chance of completing the Baron's conquest.

"His relations are far away," said Mr Bunker, looking pensively out of the
window.

"We might come in for a few minutes, Alicia?" suggested Lady Grillyer.

"Yes, mamma," replied Lady Alicia, with an alacrity that rather surprised
their host.

With a pleasantly dejected air he ushered the ladies into the darkened
sick-room. The Baron, striving to conceal his exultation under a rueful
semblance, greeted them with a languid yet happy smile.

"Ah, Lady Grillyer, zis is kind indeed! And you, Lady Alicia, how can I
zank you?"

"My daughter and I are much distressed, Baron, to find our host _hors de
combat_," said the Countess, graciously.

"Just when you wanted to go away too!" added Lady Alicia, sympathetically.

The Baron emitted a happy blend of sigh and groan.

"Alas!" he replied, "it is hard indeed."

"You must hurry up and get better," said the Countess, in her most
cheering sick-room manner. "It won't do to disappoint the Brierleys, you
know."

"You must come down for _part_ of the time," smiled her daughter.

These expressions of sympathy so affected the Baron that he placed his
hand on his brow and turned slightly away to conceal his emotion. At the
same time Mr Bunker, with well-timed dramatic effect, sank wearily into a
chair, and, laying his elbow on the back, hid his own face in his hand.

Their guests jumped to the most alarming conclusions, and looked from one
to the other with great concern.

"Dear me!" said the Countess, "surely it isn't so very serious, Mr Bunker;
it isn't _infectious_, is it?"

The unlucky Baron here made his first mistake: without waiting for his
more diplomatic friend to reply, he answered hastily, "Ach, no, it is bot
a cold."

Lady Grillyer's expression changed.

"A cold!" she said. "Dear me, that can't be so very serious, Baron."

"It is a bad cold," said the Baron.

By this time the ladies' eyes were growing more used to the dim light, and
Mr Bunker could see that they were taking rapid stock of the garnishings.

"This, I suppose, is your cough-mixture," said the Countess, examining the
bottle.

The Baron incautiously admitted it was