“Come in with me at once, we can’t keep him waiting,” said Aunt Charlotte hastily.  “I’ll explain everything to you afterwards.  Never mind your hair—­you look quite nice enough.  And mind—­your very prettiest manners, for my sake.”

What in the world she meant by this Austin couldn’t imagine, but instantly took up the cue.  The two entered the room together.  Mr Ogilvie was standing a little distance off in an attitude of expectancy, his eyes turned towards the door.  Aunt Charlotte took a step forward, and prepared to introduce her nephew.  Austin suddenly paused; gazed at the visitor for one instant with an expression that no one had ever seen upon his face before; and then, falling flop upon the nearest easy-chair, went straightway into a paroxysm of hysterical and frantic laughter.

“Austin!  Austin!  Have you gone out of your mind?” cried his aunt, almost beside herself with stupefaction.  “Is this your good behaviour?  What in the world’s the matter with the boy now?”

“It’s Mr Buskin!” shrieked Austin, hammering his leg upon the floor in a perfect ecstasy of delight.  “The step-uncle!  Oh, do slap me, auntie, or I shall go on laughing till I die!”

“Who’s Mr Buskin?” gasped his aunt, bewildered.  “This is Mr Granville Ogilvie.  What Buskin are you raving about, for Heaven’s sake?”

“It’s Mr Buskin the actor,” panted Austin breathlessly, as he began to recover himself.  “He was at the theatre here, some time ago.  How do you do, Mr Buskin?  Oh, please forgive me for being so rude.  I hope you’re pretty well?”

Mr Ogilvie had not budged an inch.  But when Austin came in he had started violently.  “Great Scott!  Young Dot-and-carry-One!” he muttered, but so low that no one heard him.  He now advanced a pace or two, and cleared his throat.

“I have certainly had the honour of meeting this young gentleman before,” he said, in his most stately manner.  “He was even kind enough to present me with his card, but I fear I did not pay as much attention to the name as it deserved.  It is true, my dear lady, that I am known to Europe under the designation he ascribes to me; but to you I am what I have always been and always shall be—­Granville Ogilvie, and your most humble slave.”

“Is it possible?” ejaculated Aunt Charlotte faintly.

“You will, no doubt, attribute to its true source the concealment I have exercised towards you respecting my life for the last five-and-twenty years,” resumed Mr Ogilvie, with a candid air.  “I was ever the most modest of men, and the modesty which, from a gross and worldly point of view, has always been the most formidable obstacle in my path, prohibited my avowing to you the secret of my profession.  Still, I practised no deceit; indeed, I confessed in the most artless fashion that, in my wanderings—­in other words, on tour—­I was compelled to assume disguises, and that some of my scenery was magnificent.  But why should I defend myself? Qui s’excuse s’accuse; and now that this very engaging young gentleman has saved me the trouble of revealing the position in life that I am proud to occupy, there is nothing more to be said.  We were interrupted, you remember, at a crisis of our conversation.  I crave your permission to add, at a crisis of our lives.  Far be it from me to——­”