“Fortunate Baron!” thought Bunker.

Beside her, though sufficiently in the rear to mark the relative position of the sexes in the society they adorned, stood Darius P. Maddison, junior—­or “Ri,” in the phrase of his relatives and friends—­a broad-shouldered, well-featured young man, with keen eyes, a mouth compressed with the stern resolve to die richer than Mr. Rockefeller, and a pair of perfectly ironed trousers.

“I am very delighted to meet you,” declared the heiress.

“Very honored to have this pleasure,” said the brother.

“While I enjoy both sensations,” replied the Count, with his most agreeable smile.

A little preliminary conversation ensued, in the course of which the two parties felt an increasing satisfaction in one another’s society; while Bunker had the further pleasure of enjoying a survey of the room in which they sat.  Evidently it was Miss Maddison’s peculiar sanctum, and it revealed at once her taste and her power of gratifying it.  The tapestry that covered two sides of the room could be seen at a glance to be no mere modern imitation, but a priceless relic of the earlier middle ages.  The other walls were so thickly hung with pictures that one could scarcely see the pale-green satin beneath; and among these paintings the Count’s educated eye recognized the work of Raphael, Botticelli, Turner, and Gainsborough among other masters; while beneath the cornice hung a well-chosen selection from the gems of the modern Anglo-American school.  The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a figured satin of a slightly richer hue of green, and on several priceless oriental tables lay displayed in ivory, silver, crystal, and alabaster more articles of vertu than were to be found in the entire house of an average collector.

“Fortunate Tulliwuddle!” thought Bunker.

They had been conversing on general topics for a few minutes, when Miss Maddison turned to her brother and said, with a frankness that both pleased and entertained the Count—­

“Ri, dear, don’t you think we had better come right straight 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?”