"It is a spell against the consequences of boasting," the lady
explained. "My mother was a bit of a magician."

"And you, my dear Countess, are bewitching. Your health!" And,
pledging her, the Baron drank off a bumper of Pommery '80 _très sec_,
and laughed joyously at the notion of his rapping the table--all
"table-rapping" being a past superstition, or supperstition when
not at dinner,--and murmuring, "_Beroofen_!" And so he didn't do
it. "_Beroofen_" never passed his lips: the champagne did; but not
"_Beroofen_."

* * * * *

[Illustration]

"Ugh I--I feel so shivery-and-livery. Ugh!--so chilly. Here! Send for
Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA!" cried the Baron, clapping his hands, and a
thousand ebon slaves bounded off to execute his commands. Had they not
done so, they themselves might have suffered the fate intended for the
commands, and have themselves been rapidly executed.

* * * * *

"You've got 'em," quoth Dr. ROBSON ROOSTEM PASHA.

"Not 'again'!" cried the Baron, surprised, never having had 'em
before.

"No: the _phenomena_," said the Eminent Medico.