“Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the unpleasant youth’s remarks.
“Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning.
“Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously.
“We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte.
His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter in which his loose-lipped patron joined.
“You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host, “ ’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this more better than you know.’ ” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?”
Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town.
Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room.
“Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere. Why are you so kind to us all?”
The Count blinked at him.