The Baron sat among his heirlooms, laboriously disengaging himself from his kilt.

Fitfully throughout this process he would warble snatches of an air which Miss Gallosh had sung.
"Whae vould not dee for Sharlie ?" he trolled, "Ze yong chevalier!" "Then you don't think of leaving to-morrow morning ?" asked Count Bunker, who was watching him with a complacent air.
"Mein Gott, no fears!" "We had better wait, perhaps, till the afternoon ?" "I go not for tree veeks! Gaben sie--das ist, gim'me zat tombler.

Vun more of mountain juice to ze health of all Galloshes! Partic'ly of vun! Eh, old Bonker ?" The Count took care to see that the mountain juice was well diluted.
His friend had already found Scottish hospitality difficult to enjoy in moderation.
"Baron, you gave us a marvellously lifelike representation of a Jacobite chieftain!" The Baron laughed a trifle vacantly.
"Ach, it is easy for me.

Himmel, a Blitzenberg should know how! Vollytoddle--Toddyvolly--whatsh my name, Bonker ?" The Count informed him.
"Tollivoddlesh is nozing to vat I am at home! Abs'lutely nozing! I have a house twice as big as zis, and servants--Ach, so many I know not! Bot, mein Bonker, it is not soch fon as zis! Mein Gott, I most get to bed.

I toss ze caber to-morrow." And upon the arm of his faithful ally he moved cautiously towards his bedroom.
But if he had enjoyed his evening well, his pleasure was nothing to the gratification of his hosts.