“I don’t know,” said Revitts stolidly. “Go on, Ant’ny.”
He went on, himself, towards the Vinery, Mary following with me, and looking at me helplessly, as if asking what she should do.
The sight of the great bunches of grapes in such enormous numbers seemed to change the course of William Revitts’ thoughts, and we went on pretty comfortably for a time, Mary’s spirits rising, and her tongue going more freely, but there were no more weak, amiable smiles.
At last we entered the palace, and on seeing a light dragoon on duty, Revitts pulled himself together, looked severe, and marched by him, as if belonging to a kindred force; but he stopped to ask questions on the grand staircase, respecting the painted ceilings.
“Are them angels, Ant’ny?” he said.
“I suppose so,” I replied.
“Then I don’t believe it,” he said angrily. “Why, if such evidence was given at Clerkenwell, everybody in the police-court would go into fits, and the reporters would say in the papers, ‘Loud laughter, which was promptly repressed’! or, ‘Loud laughter, in which the magistrate joined.’”
“Whatever does he mean, Master Antony? I don’t know what’s come to him to-day,” whispered Mary.
“Why, that there,” said Revitts contemptuously. “Just fancy a witness coming and swearing as the angels in heaven played big fiddles, and things like the conductor blew coming down. The painter must have been a fool.”
He was better pleased with the arms and armour, stopping to carefully examine a fine old mace.