ight to the
point? I feel sure Count Bunker is only waiting till he knows us a
little better, and I guess it will save him considerable embarrassment
if we begin."

"You are the best judge, Eleanor. I guess your notions are never far of
being all right."

With a gratified smile Eleanor addressed the Count.

"My brother and I are affinities," she said. "You can speak to him just
as openly as you can to me. What is fit for me to hear is fit for him."

Assuring her that he would not hesitate to act upon this guarantee if
necessary, the Count nevertheless diplomatically suggested that he would
sooner leave it to the lady to open the discussion.

"Well," she said, "I suppose we may presume you have called here as Lord
Tulliwuddle's friend?"

"You may, Miss Maddison."

"And no doubt he has something pretty definite to suggest?"

"Matrimony," smiled the Count.

Her brother threw him a stern smile of approval.

"That's right slick THERE!" he exclaimed.

"Lord Tulliwuddle has made a very happy selection in his ambassador,"
said Eleanor, with equal cordiality. "People who are afraid to come to
facts tire me. No doubt you will think it strange and forward of me to
talk in this spirit, Count, but if you'd had to go through the worry of
being an American heiress in a European state you would sympathize. Why,
I'm hardly ever left in peace for twenty-four hours--am I, Ri?"

"That is so," quoth Ri.

"What would you guess my age to be, Count Bunker?"

"Twenty-one," suggested Bunker, subtracting two or three years on
general principles.

"Well, you're nearer it than most people. Nineteen on my last birthday,
Count!"

The Count murmured his surprise and pleasure, and Ri again declared,
"That is so."

"And it isn't the American climate that ages one, but the terrible
persecutions of the British aristocracy! I can be as romantic as any
girl, Count Bunker; why, Ri, you remember poor Abe Sellar and the stolen
shoe-lace?"

"Guess I do!" said Ri.

"That was a romance if ever there was one! But I tell you, Count,
sentiment gets rubbed off pretty quick when you come to a bankrupt
Marquis writing three ill-spelled sheets to assure me of the
disinterested affection inspired by my photograph, or a divorced Duke
offering to read Tennyson to me if I'll hire a punt!"

"I can well believe it," said the Count sympathetically.

"Well, now," the heiress resumed, with a candid smile that made her
cynicism become her charmingly,