"What? What? My soup?"
"Yessir, your soup."
The man's recuperative power was marvellous. His eyes were bleared, his face white, the wavy hair fell in disorder over his forehead. But he was awake and conscious.
"Thank you, Prince," he said, in his clear and sweet voice, "just what I wanted. Hullo, Dicker! You here?—I'll just have my soup. . . ."
He grasped the large ladle-spoon with curious eagerness. It was as though he found salvation in the hot liquid—pungent as it was with cognac and burning spices.
He lapped it eagerly, coughing now and again, "gluck-gluck" and then a groan of satisfaction.
The other two watched him with quiet eagerness. There was nothing horrible to them in this. Neither the valet nor the boy understood that they were "lacqueys in the house of shame." As they saw their muddy magic beginning to succeed, satisfaction swelled within them.
Gilbert Lothian's mind was coming back. They were blind to the hideous necessity of their summons, untouched by disgust at the physical processes involved.
"Will you require me any more, sir?"
"No, thank you, Prince."