A sneer came to Pangbutt’s pale lips:
“Indeed!” said he. “Such modesty——”
“Sit down, Blotte,” roared the sculptor, Rippley.
The poor drunken fellow took no slightest notice of the interruption, but continued his tale:
“Of course—it was easy enough. It wasn’t worth scoring the trick. But—he was a shabby devil—though he stood just about your height....” He whistled aimlessly.... “About this time, what d’you think? the fellow got into the Embassy set—hiccup—God knows how!... Don’t ask me.... The Baddlesmeres were connected with Embassy people—and the fellow got a footing.... Cæsar was always ambitious.... So he dropped Kate Ormsby—poor little devil!... She was such a pretty creature—and I spent the rest of my youth in telling her that the fellow would come back to her—God forgive me!...”
Pangbutt shifted uneasily; but his cynical voice showed no uneasiness:
“Really,” said he coldly—“your biography is not without romance, Mr. Blotte.”
“Quite so,” said Blotte. “She sings outside taverns now.... I consider it a most damned unladylike thing to do.... Saw her—last winter—snow on ground—and formally asked her hand in marriage—hiccup. But,” he smiled, “she—hiccup—she said I wasn’t sober.... Rather bad taste of her, I thought——”
The man-servant entered the room with the glasses on a tray; Fluffy Reubens nudged Rippley, and jerked his thumb towards Blotte.
“Sit down, Blotte,” cried Fluffy Reubens—“and dry up.”