The high and mighty Railway Lion took the pasteboard between the tips of his thumb and fore-finger; and having glanced at it, he tossed it with sublime scorn into a waste-paper basket, exclaiming in his rough, disagreeable voice, “Mr. Clarence Villiers—eh? Well—I suppose I’d better see him. Don’t move, Mr. Styles: you shall just see how I’ll serve the insolent fellow that must and will have an interview with ME!”
The domestic retreated without turning his back upon his master,—or, in other words, stepped backwards to the door, as if he were quitting the presence of Royalty; and Mr. Styles again vented his well-affected indignation and surprise that “people should be so bold and inconsiderate as to obtrude themselves into the presence of Mr. Podgson in such a manner.”
“Bold and inconsiderate!” repeated the Railway Lion. “It is owdacious and intolerable.”
“Shameful!” cried Mr. Styles.
“Perfectly insupportable!” vociferated Mr. Podgson.
“Monstrous in the extreme!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, actually working himself up into a passion.
“But I’ll put a stop to it!” continued the Railway Lion, dealing a tremendous blow with his clenched fist upon the table: “I’ll bring in a Bill next Session, Mr. Styles, to protect public men from insolent intrusion!”
“It will serve the scoundrels quite right, my dear sir,” responded the small speculator, approvingly.
“By Gad! I’ll pay the reskels off for it!” exclaimed the mighty man, who could command hundreds of thousands of pounds, but not the minutest fraction of his temper.
The door now opened again; and the pompous domestic, whose countenance was expressive of deep indignation, ushered in the reader’s old friend—Mr. Clarence Villiers,—now a fine, handsome man, in the prime of life.