Undershell (to himself, writhing). I gave her credit for more sense. To make me publicly ridiculous like this!
[He sulks.
Miss Stickler (to M. Ridevos, who suddenly rises). Mossoo, you're not going! Why, whatever's the matter?
M. Ridevos. Pairmeet zat I make my depart. I am cot at ze art.
[General outcry and sensation.
Mrs. Pomfret (concerned). You never mean that, Mossoo? And a nice dish of quails just put on, too, that they haven't even touched upstairs!
M. Ridevos. It is for zat I do not remmain! Zey 'ave not toch him; my pyramide, result of a genius stupend, énorme! to zem he is nossing; zey retturn him to crash me! To-morrow I demmand zat miladi accept my demission. Ici je souffre trop!
[He leaves the room precipitately.
Miss Stickler (offering to rise). It does seem to have upset him! Shall I go after him and see if I can't bring him round?
Mrs. Pomfret (severely). Stay where you are, Harriet; he's better left to himself. If he wasn't so wropped up in his cookery, he'd know there's always a dish as goes the round untasted, without why or wherefore. I've no patience with the man!