“After all, it is no grand occasion,—a little party of four.”
“What a swell! what a swell!” shrieked the parrot.
“Ain't I? By Jove,” laughed Layton, “the doctor is marvellous in his remarks to-day.”
“There, I have done my best with such scanty 'properties,'” said he, as he turned away from the glass. “The greatest peril to a shabby man is the self-imposed obligation to show he is better than he looks. It is an almost invariable blunder.”
She muttered something inaudibly, and, as usual, he went on with his own thoughts.
“One either assumes a more dictatorial tone, or takes more than his share of the talk, or is more apt to contradict the great man of the company,—at least I do.”
“Don't go, Tom! don't! don't!” called out Dr. Barret.
“Not go?—after all these splendid preparations!” said Layton, with a laugh. “After yourself exclaiming, 'What a swell!'”
“It 'll never pay,—never pay,—never pay!” croaked out Poll.
“That I'm sure of, doctor. I never knew one of these politic things that did; but yet we go on through life practising them in the face of all their failure, dancing attendance at levées, loitering in antechambers, all to be remembered by some great man who is just as likely to hate the sight of us. However, this shall be my last transgression.”