“Ach, no!  Not surely?  Do not disappoint me, dear Bonker!”

The Baron’s plaintive note seemed to amuse his friend.

“You don’t mean to say you actually wish a boon companion?  You, Baron, the modern Talleyrand, the repository of three emperors’ secrets?  My dear fellow, I nearly came in deep mourning.”

“Mourning!  For vat?”

“For our lamented past:  I supposed you would have the air of a Nonconformist beadle.”

“My friend!” said the Baron eagerly, and yet with a lowering of his voice, “I vould not like to engage a beadle mit jost ze same feelings as me.  Come here to zis corner and let us talk!  Vaiter! whisky—­soda—­ cigars—­all for two.  Come, Bonker!”

Stretched in arm-chairs, in a quiet corner of the room, the two surveyed one another with affectionate and humorous interest.  For three years they had not seen one another at all, and save once they had not met for five.  In five years a man may change his religion or lose his hair, inherit a principality or part with a reputation, grow a beard or turn teetotaler.  Nothing so fundamental had happened to either of our friends.  The Baron’s fullness of contour we have already noticed; in Mandell-Essington, ex Bunker, was to be seen even less evidence of the march of time.  But years, like wheels upon a road, can hardly pass without leaving in their wake some faint impress, however fair the weather, and perhaps his hair lay a fraction of an inch higher up the temple, and in the corners of his eyes a hint might even be discerned of those little wrinkles that register the smiles and frowns.  Otherwise he was the same distinguished-looking, immaculately dressed, supremely self-possessed, and charming Francis Bunker, whom the Baron’s memory stored among its choicer possessions.

“Tell me,” demanded the Baron, “vat you are doing mit yourself, mine Bonker.”

“Doing?” said Essington, lighting his cigar.  “Well, my dear Baron, I am endeavoring to live as I imagine a gentleman should.”

“And how is zat?”

“Riding a little, shooting a little, and occasionally telling the truth.  At other times I cock a wise eye at my modest patrimony, now and then I deliver a lecture with magic-lantern slides; and when I come up to town I sometimes watch cricket-matches.  A devilish invigorating programme, isn’t it?”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Baron again; he had come prepared to laugh, and carried out his intention religiously.  “But you do not feel more old and sober, eh?”

“I don’t want to, but no man can avoid his destiny.  The natives of this island are a serious people, or if they are frivolous, it is generally a trifle vulgarly done.  The diversions of the professedly gay-hooting over pointless badinage and speculating whose turn it is to get divorced next—­become in time even more sobering than a scientific study with diagrams of how to breed pheasants or play golf.  If some one would teach us the simple art of being light-hearted he would deserve to be placed along with Nelson on his monument.”