“I think,” said Rupert Grant, with a satanic suavity, “that Mr Montmorency has something further to say to you, lieutenant.”
“Only,” said the house-agent, in desperation, “what about the birds?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Rupert, in a general blank.
“What about the birds?” said the house-agent doggedly.
Basil, who had remained throughout the proceedings in a state of Napoleonic calm, which might be more accurately described as a state of Napoleonic stupidity, suddenly lifted his leonine head.
“Before you go, Lieutenant Keith,” he said. “Come now. Really, what about the birds?”
“I'll take care of them,” said Lieutenant Keith, still with his long back turned to us; “they shan't suffer.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” cried the incomprehensible house-agent, with an air of ecstasy. “You'll excuse my concern, sir. You know I'm wild on wild animals. I'm as wild as any of them on that. Thank you, sir. But there's another thing...”
The lieutenant, with his back turned to us, exploded with an indescribable laugh and swung round to face us. It was a laugh, the purport of which was direct and essential, and yet which one cannot exactly express. As near as it said anything, verbally speaking, it said: “Well, if you must spoil it, you must. But you don't know what you're spoiling.”
“There is another thing,” continued Mr Montmorency weakly. “Of course, if you don't want to be visited you'll paint the house green, but—”