Incident of the Impudent Headmaster
Clad in an opalescent dressing-gown, the color of peacock’s eyes and emu’s fins, Anthony was lying on a luxurious lounge of mauve satin stuffed with eiderdown and aigrettes, reading Ghunga Dhin and drinking Ghordon Ghin. A timid knock on the door preceded the entrance of the headmaster. He stood in the doorway sheepishly, hat in hand, pulling an obsequious forelock.
“Blaine—er—er—Mister Blaine,” he said.
“Well, Margotson? What is it?”
“I called—er—to ask you, sir, if—er—er—you wouldn’t kindly attend a recitation—er—now and then—er—just as a matter of form, you know?”
“Go to hell!” said Anthony coldly, turning again to his liquor.
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”
The headmaster faded through the doorway and, doubtless, went as he had been directed.
“Damn his impudence!” muttered Anthony.