armth on, and means to take his eyes off in half an
hour. They really look quite a young couple, and the frivolity of their
conduct adds to the effect. Nobody would believe in her grown-up
daughter, to see that young Mrs. Algernon Fenwick.

"I am ferry root, Mrs. Harrisson. If I introot, you shall say I
introot." It is the Baron, manifestly. His form--or rather his bulk,
for he cannot be said to have a form; he is amorphous--is baronial in
the highest degree. His stupendous chest seems to be a huge cavern for
the secretion of gutturals, which are discharged as heavy artillery
at a hint from some unseen percussion-cap within.

Mrs. Fenwick starts, a little taken aback at the Baron's thunderclap;
for he had approached unawares, and her closed eyes helped on the
effect. When they opened, they looked round, as for a third person. But
the Baron was alone.

"Where is Mrs. Harrisson?" She asks the question with the most absolute
unconsciousness that she was herself the person addressed. The Baron,
still believing, presumably, that Fenwick is _Mr._ Harrisson, is not
a person to be trusted with the position created. He develops an
offensive waggery, shakes the forefinger that has detected an escapade,
and makes of his lips the round _O_ of shocked propriety, at heart in
sympathy with the transgressor. His little grey eyes glare through his
gold-rimmed spectacles, and his huge chest shakes with a substratum of
laughter, only just loud enough to put in the text.

"O-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! No, do not be afraight. She is not here. We
unterzdant. It is all unterzdoot. We shall be ferry tizgreet...." And
then the Baron pats space with his fingers only, not moving his hand,
as a general indication of secrecy to the universe.

Probably the slight flush that mantles the face he speaks to is less
due to any offence at his fat, good-humoured German raillery than to
some vague apprehension of the real nature of the position about to
develop. But Fenwick imputes it to the former. If Rosey was inclined to
treat the thing as a harmless joke, he would follow suit; but she looks
hurt, and her husband, sensitive about every word that is said to her,
blazes out:

"What on earth do you mean? What the devil do you mean? How dare you
speak to my wife like that?" He makes a half-step towards the burly
mass of flesh, still shaking with laughter. But his wife stops him.

"Do be patient, Gerry darling! Don't flare up like that. I'll have a
divorce. I