“Aha!” cried Rippley—“the glasses, gentlemen! Blotte, I give you better advice—come and be moistened.”
The drunken man nodded to his host:
“You’ll excuse me,” he said; and he strolled off unsteadily towards the glasses.
There was a loud shout of laughter, as Rippley, to cause a diversion, poured a libation of beer on the old butler’s bald head, dedicating him to Venus: the old man, with the beer trickling down his nose, and scorn upon his lip, solemnly withdrew.
Rippley started the cask of beer, the girls handing the glasses about as they were filled.
Lovegood, master of the revels, coughed:
“How naturally Rippley presides at the cask!” said he. “Heaven meant him for an honest publican; but native conceit, or some other maggot in the brain, turned his hands to sculpture.”
Pangbutt fretted in sullen silence, wondering when the crew would be done and gone. He even told himself that it would have been less embarrassing if he had gone to see the Baddlesmeres—and for the rest of the evening he brooded upon it.
Lovegood sat back in his chair, glad to get all eyes away from the host:
“Ah, English-brewed ale to-night!” said he tragically. “None of your sour wines of France.” He turned to one of the girl-models—“Sweet Andromache, a tankard for the chair!” said he.