"It is really my father's bedroom when he is at home, but I've had it specially prepared for YOU! Is it just as you would like ?" Bunker was incapable of observing anything very particularly beyond the fact that the floor was uncarpeted, and as nearly free from furniture as a bedroom floor could well be.
"It is ravishing!" he murmured, and dismissed her with a well-feigned smile.
Bereft even of expletives, he gazed round the apartment prepared for him.

It was a few moments before he could bring himself to make a tour of its vast bleakness.
"I suppose that's what they call a truckle-bed," he mused.

"Oh, there is one chair--nothing but cold water-towels made of vegetable fibre apparently.

The devil take me, is this a reformatory for bogus noblemen!" He next gazed at the bare whitewashed wall.

On it hung one picture--the portrait of a strangely attired man.
"What a shocking-looking fellow!" he exclaimed, and went up to examine it more closely.
Then, with a stupefying shock, he read this legend beneath it: "Count Bunker.