“Glasses, Dukes,” he said.
“Yessir.”
The old man solemnly turned and left the room.
Fluffy Reubens, who had been gazing sentimentally at the portrait upon the easel, turned to the gilt chair that yawned empty amidst its picturesque setting on the painter’s throne:
“What! the society beauty has flown!”
Rippley kissed his hand to the portrait:
“I put it,” said he, “that Eustace Lovegood take the beauty’s chair.”
There was a din of acclamation; and the big man stepped tragically on to the throne and took the seat. His pale face smiled.
“This is no longer a vulgar brawl,” said he—“but an ordered debauch.”
Rippley turned and, staring at Blotte where he sat solemnly astride of the cask, blinking drunkenly from under his wreath, gave him a hail: