“Don’t say that, Mrs Thompson,” said the mild-looking butler. “It is very dreadful, though.”
“Dreadful isn’t the word. Are we ancient Egyptians? I declare, ever since them Hightalians have been in the house, going about like three dark conspirators in a play, I’ve had the creeps. I say, it didn’t ought to be allowed.”
“What am I to say to them, sir?” said the footman, a strongly built man, with shifty eyes and quickly twitching lips.
“Well, look here, Charles,” said the butler, slowly wiping his mouth with his hand, “We have no Chianti wine. You must take them a bottle of Chambertin.”
“My!” ejaculated cook.
“Chambertin, sir?”
“It’s Mr Girtle’s orders. They’ve come here straight from Paris on purpose, and they are to have everything they want.”
The butler left the gloomy room, and Mrs Thompson, a stout lady, who moved only when she was obliged, turned to the thin, elderly housemaid.
“Mark my words, Ann,” she said. “It’s contr’y to nature, and it’ll bring a curse.”
“Well,” said the woman, “it can’t make the house more dull than it has been.”